


Come Alive, Come Undone

by Nuanta



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Azure Moon Route, Fantasy Violence, Intrusive Thoughts, Kneeling, Light Bondage, M/M, Mutual Pining, Platonic BDSM, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Subspace, blood mention, dedue needs to learn how to be his own person, dimitri needs to heal from his...everything, mostly canon compliant except dedue has a bigger role, so lots of baggage and lots of healing eventually but also dumb boys are dumb, takes place during the events of chapters 16-18 ish, they both need to reconcile their traumas with each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-07 06:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 53,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21453607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuanta/pseuds/Nuanta
Summary: “There is something I would like to try with you, Your Highness, if you will let me. But you might not approve of it, or like it.“I think you should kneel, while I tend to your wounds.”Dimitri and Dedue have each seen their fair share of trauma, and in the five years since Dedue took Dimitri’s place on the execution block, the scars have only deepened. Reunited at long last, they must now learn how to heal - and part of that is apparently going to involve getting Dimitri out of his head.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert & Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro, Mercedes von Matritz & Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 249
Kudos: 288





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I'm over 30k into writing this for NaNoWriMo and it's the most inspiration I've had in nearly three years and my excitement got the better of me cause I guess I'm gonna start posting as I go instead of waiting for the entire thing to be finished. I love these dumb boys so much and want to work through their traumas with them apparently, so here we are. Here's hoping I can do them justice.
> 
> If anyone has any concerns about the ratings/tags please let me know and I'll fix them up. Like I said it's been nearly three years since I've written anything meaningful so please go easy on me, and I hope people like this!

Dedue has spent five years imagining how this would go.

Five years, first in agonizing recovery, bedridden and weak, healing magics only enough to repair the surface wounds.

_You must rest_, they tell him. _If you move too quickly, your wounds will reopen, and then you will be as good as dead._

Five years, learning to walk again, to move; to cook, trembling fingers readjusting to the fine measurements and cutting knives, wrists relearning to support the heavy weight of a pot; to garden, thighs wobbling like pudding as they rebuild the endurance of a sitting crouch, arms shaking as they pull weeds; to fight, learning to run in heavy armor, to swing an axe, to raise his fists, sparring with as many of his countrymen who will indulge him at once.

_No sense in doing too much, too soon, _they remind him. _You’ve been incapacitated for a long time. Your rehabilitation is a delicate process. If you rush it, you will only hurt yourself again, and you will be unable to accomplish your goals._

Five years, most recently moving across the war-torn country in secret, careful not to reveal himself to anyone, disposing of any brigands and bandits he finds along the way, following even the slightest of hints to an unknown destination.

_Always be on guard, _they say as they bestow upon him the most functional parting gifts they can offer: supplies, rations, all in a pack that will be easy to carry. A scarf, to shield him from the cold in ways the armor can’t, colored and patterned by his people, to remind him of their kindness, their debt repaid. _If you are found out, all will be for naught, and you will never be of use to him again._

All in the name of returning to His Highness, to be his strength and shield once more, to aid him in achieving any goal he sets his sights on.

Dedue has spent five years imagining how this would go, and yet he still isn’t quite prepared for when he finally finds him.

He wishes he could allow himself the luxury of letting the relief wash over him: He’s with Gilbert, and Lord Fraldarius, and the professor. He’s with the rest of the Blue Lions house, with the Knights of Seiros. He’s with a small army. They’re charging across the Great Bridge of Myrddin, clashing with Imperial troops.

His Highness is crouched low, pressing forward with powerful legs, swinging his lance with all the excess strength the Blaiddyd crest affords him. He shakes with murderous intent, the rage pooling from his figure palpable. Dedue wants to bottle it, to make it his own, to channel that wrath and bear it on the front lines so His Highness doesn’t have to.

But there’s no time to dwell on it, because that meddlesome minor lord, Acheron, is launching a pincer attack from the Alliance side, and Dedue can’t have that.

He cuts through one of Acheron’s men with ease, at the same time as His Highness whirls with his lance to pierce through another’s throat. As they both turn, their gazes lock on one another for a fraction of a second. And for the briefest of moments, time slows, and Dedue looks into that single brilliant blue eye, and he sees the instant it goes from clouded with fury to widening with realization.

Then Dedue is striking down another soldier, and His Highness does the same, while the professor dispatches of the troublesome lord.

Free to continue ahead, the army moves, but His Highness hangs behind for just a moment. Dedue keeps his head on a swivel; he hears murmurs, shocked cries, but they haven’t the time to spare. The longer this battle draws out, the more likely the Empire receives reinforcements.

His Highness of all people should know that, and yet, his lance hangs loosely at his side, his temper faded. Overgrown blond bangs matted with sweat hang over his face, over the black patch covering one eye and clinging to his skin.

“Dedue,” he says, his voice more timid than Dedue remembers it, yet that name on those thin lips is everything he has waited for these five long years. “You’re – I thought you were dead. You –”

He is on the wrong path. But Dedue is here now, and he will set things straight. “I will explain everything later,” he says, tightening the grip on his axe. “For now, let me clear the way for you.”

His Highness nods, still looking small, but Dedue trusts that he will snap out of it quickly. So he turns and charges onwards with the rest of their army, and sure enough, he hears the sound of a powerful stride following close behind, so he knows he’s done his job.

He is here, he can keep His Highness close, he can finally resume his life’s goal.

Nothing else matters.

~o~

Dimitri figured he was seeing ghosts again.

That was the only explanation for Dedue’s return. At least, it was, until Dedue’s form literally cleaved through members of the mobilized Alliance troops, and continued on to help him depose Ladislava. It also helped that everyone with him could see Dedue, could speak with him, could reach out a hand and come to rest on solid, real armor.

Dimitri wanted so badly to feel it for himself, to trace fingers across cool armor, maybe to travel upwards to that beautiful scarf Dedue wore. How soft would the fabric feel, he wondered. Would it smell of the flowers unique to Duscur, the ones Dedue loved so much? He wished he could wrap himself in it, in the soothing balm that Dedue’s return should be.

_You do not deserve him,_ his stepmother told him.

Glenn chimed in, _All of your knights have died for you. _

Dedue had died five years ago. Dimitri had been sure of it. In his escape, though, he had not looked back – could not look back. Dedue sacrificed his life so Dimitri could live and carry out his mission.

_I died so you could fulfill your goals,_ said Dedue, who was dead.

“No,” Dimitri said, shaking his head. It pounded with more than his usual headaches, now. “I thought you died, just like the professor. But you’re both alive. You’re both here. Your voices have no place in my head.”

_Everyone you love is dead,_ his father reminded him.

“No.” Firmer now. Dimitri closed his eye, rubbed the heel of his palm against it. He conjured up that image again, that splendid one, of Dedue standing tall over an Imperial soldier’s corpse, dark skin mottled with scars, armor newly tarnished from battle, but nary a fresh scratch on him. Dedue had always been taller than Dimitri, but he had grown still, and his face had filled out just as his body no doubt had with muscle. It was evident from the effortless power of his movements, the crushing blows of his axe. That teal scarf decorating his neck, a proud emblem of Duscur.

A stark reminder of his promise.

_You promised me,_ said Dedue, even though he was not dead.

_You promised us, _Glenn said. His father and stepmother rallied behind him.

_Let us rest. _

_We cannot be at peace until you bring us her head._

Pain seared across Dimitri’s head, threatening to split it open, like prying apart a nut’s shell. He stumbled, reached out and planted Areadbhar’s shaft in the dirt to steady himself.

“I know, I know,” he pleaded. “I’m trying. I promise, I’m trying.” At the war council, he would not be swayed. He alone dictated their path, and the lot followed. He would lead them into bloody battle after bloody battle, but there was an end in sight. “We are marching for Enbarr. Just hold on a little longer. I will cleave her traitorous head from her shoulders and offer it to you on a silver platter.”

_It is taking too long._

_We’ve waited nine years._

_March faster._

Pain exploded in the back of his head, and spots blotted Dimitri’s vision. He cried out at the hard impact against his knees; his lance clanged across the ground before he’d had a chance to register that he’d dropped it.

“Please,” Dimitri gasped. “I swear to you, I will not rest until you have been avenged.”

_You need to rest sometime,_ said Dedue.

Dimitri shook his head. “I will not – I cannot.”

_Did you hurt yourself when you fell? _Dedue asked.

“Fell?”

Dimitri blinked hard several times, and suddenly the rest of the world filled in around him.

He was no longer standing, but hunched over on his knees in the rubble of the monastery cathedral, his weapon on the ground an arm’s width away. A shadow was casting itself over him, and he looked up to find Dedue: alive, tall, strong, concerned. Cold washed through him, and he shivered.

“I – no,” he muttered, shame creeping into his bones. “I am well.”

If he disbelieved that, Dedue did not show it. He simply stood stoically, watching him, almost as if he was considering something.

“They are more demanding of you now,” Dedue remarked. Dimitri felt a rush of gratitude swoop through him, that Dedue was not judging; merely observing. He had always been the only one who accepted the burdens the fallen had saddled on Dimitri’s shoulders. He tended to them, rather than treat them like poisonous fantasies, like pieces of rotting fruit that needed to be cut from the batch.

Dimitri sat back on his heels. “They are,” he agreed. “They’ve grown restless. It’s been taking too long.”

Dedue hummed thoughtfully. “That doesn’t mean you cannot rest either. Besides, everyone but the night watch is asleep. We should do the same.”

His chest tightened, and the laughter forced its way out of his mouth before he could stop it. “How cute of you, to think I would be able to sleep.” It was almost as hysterical as it was malicious. “They do not let me sleep.”

_Sleep is for the humans,_ his father said derisively. _You have no humanity left. All you can do is kill._

“I am a monster,” Dimitri continued. He reached for Areadbhar, stroking his thumb across the handle. It belonged in his grip, a perfect fit, built for massacres. “I have brutally slaughtered more people than you can imagine. You weren’t there, Dedue.” Anger bubbled inside him suddenly and, leaning on his lance, he pushed himself to his feet. “You haven’t seen the atrocities I have committed. You _died_.” It boiled and spilled, and he found himself shouting. “You died, and this is what I have become. I am but a machine meant only for killing. I do not deserve rest.”

He waited for Dedue to protest, to insist that he was wrong, that there was still good left in him, but he was met only with silence. The best and worst kind of silence, because Dedue looked at him without a shred of pity, and only acceptance.

Dimitri couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at him like that.

He’d – he’d missed it so much. The others followed him, but they treated him like a wild animal needing to be caged in. Their attempts to keep him on a leash were pitiful at best, and endlessly irritating.

For five years, the only person who’d even come close to understanding him was dead. Now that he wasn’t, Dimitri longed to throw himself at Dedue, to take up arms together and march through the Empire just the two of them. No one else could accomplish what they were capable of when they were together. They would storm the city streets, eliminating anyone who dared stand in their way. They would cut through Edelgard’s most trusted personal guard. That snake, Hubert. The powerful Death Knight. All of their blood would spill and flow freely; none would be a match for their prowess. And when Edelgard’s head finally tumbled from her shoulders, they would stand tall amidst the carnage of the red-stained palace, and no one would dream of coming between them.

“Where are you going?” asked Dedue.

Dimitri stopped mid-step. The fantasy faded, and he was back in Garreg Mach. A beat, and then he was doubled over laughing. How stupid was he? He had really started to walk out, to march for Enbarr on his own, knowing Dedue would follow.

Or perhaps stop him.

“Your Highness,” Dedue began, and there it finally was, that careful treading-on-eggshells tone, it was only a matter of time before he started using it too, after all –

“Do not speak to me that way,” Dimitri commanded, unable to keep the seething disgust from his voice. He gripped his lance tighter to stop his arm from shaking, the throbbing between his temples building anew. “Why are you even here?”

“I swore to serve you,” Dedue answered easily. “I –”

“No.” Stupid, pointless conversation. “Here. With me. Instead of sleeping in your room like everyone else.”

Dedue did not waver. “I swore to be your shield,” he said. Dimitri stared. He could clearly count the scars that lined Dedue’s face, from the ones across his forehead to the once-deep gash over his cheekbone to the one through his lips. “If this is where you take vigil for the night, then I will guard you here.”

It hurt too much. By now, the ache had taken root deep in his chest as well, spreading through his bones. Every movement labored.

“Fine,” Dimitri conceded, deflating. Admitting defeat. “We will return to our chambers. But I do not expect to sleep.”

Dedue nodded. “I would not ask that much of you,” he said. “But thank you.”

Dimitri scoffed, but he had no patience left for arguing. He turned to head to his quarters, and tried not to look back at Dedue following behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this was a decent preview. I'm still writing but considering how much I've got so far hopefully I'll update every weekend and by the end of the month the fic will be done (fingers crossed) so I'll be able to update more frequently. 
> 
> I made a [twitter](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic) account for fandom stuff and I'm still figuring out how fandom interactions work haha but feel free to talk to me there if you like!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is starting off so slow and dull and the chapters are so short for now, it's moving somewhere, I promise.

They have a little under a month to resupply and regroup before they march anew, waiting on missives from the Alliance and from those still loyal to the Blaiddyd line – so Dedue has time. Time he intends to make very good use of.

There are not many people left tending to the greenhouse anymore, but Ashe is there, and so Dedue joins him for a morning of gardening.

Of all his classmates, he thinks Ashe is the one who has grown up the most. He’s taller, though not much, and his face has lost some of the baby fat it still retained just five years ago. It doesn’t look hollow, though; Ashe still smiles with the same easy optimism he’s always had.

Some things are better off not changing, and Ashe’s smile is one of them.

“I tried my best to fix everything up in here so we can get some good crops going,” Ashe explains, cheeks tinged with pink. “But this place had been abandoned for five years before we took it back as our base, so…” He trails off, gesturing.

Indeed, the crops are so much scarcer now, and the greenhouse is decidedly less green that it used to be, but Dedue shakes his head and offers Ashe a small smile in return.

“It’s to be expected,” he says. “You’ve done a fine job with what you have.”

Ashe blushes fully now. “Well, now that you’re back, I’m sure this place will fill out in no time,” he says.

Dedue glances over to what used to be his corner, and his heart stutters in his chest. The flowers from Duscur he’d planted all those years ago are still in bloom, the brightest spot in the entire greenhouse, offering their sweet smells to the atmosphere. Flowers that remind him of home, where he’d spent much of the past five years, a circumstance he’d never expected.

Ashe follows his gaze, and says, softly, hopefully, “We remembered they needed a dry environment to bloom. I guess, while the monastery was abandoned, they had just the right kind to stay healthy. They’ve been like this ever since we returned. I…I’ve been taking care not to water them with the others.”

Dedue swallows thickly. “Thank you,” is all he can manage.

He permits himself to stare at them a while longer, but Ashe’s sneaky, silent attempt at picking up the watering can to resume caring for the rest of the garden does not escape him. He reaches into his pouch and pulls out the packs of seeds his countrymen had sent him back with. Scans for a good patch of soil to plant them in.

_Take these parting gifts with you, so you may remember your homeland,_ the healer woman, Mara, had told him. _Let your chosen people be reminded of the beauty that lives beyond their lands._

They work in companionable silence, Dedue planting seeds while Ashe waters and harvests the healthy herbs and vegetables.

“Say, Dedue,” Ashe says suddenly. “What do you think of Prince Dimitri’s behavior?”

Dedue holds in place for a moment, and carefully looks over at Ashe’s face, searching, but he doesn’t find a trace of malice. It’s all genuine concern, just like he always was.

He takes too long to respond, though, and Ashe breaks eye contact, blushing furiously. “I-I’m sorry,” he stutters sheepishly as he pulls a carrot from the soil. “I shouldn’t have asked such an impudent question.”

“No, you are allowed,” Dedue says. “I will give you my answer in confidence.”

“On my honor,” Ashe swears solemnly. “I would never betray your trust.”

“Thank you.” He lets the words sit, chooses them carefully. He refuses to give away too much. “His Highness has always been pained by the death of his loved ones in the tragedy of Duscur. Regardless of right or wrong, avenging them is something he needs to do.”

Confusion flits across Ashe’s eyes. “Will it be worth it?”

“I don’t know,” Dedue answers honestly. “I suppose His Highness will only know the answer to that question once it is done.”

“I see.” A beat, and then – “I’m glad you’re back. He really looks like he could use a friend.”

It’s a word His Highness used to try to persuade him to use so many times. A concept that clashes with their ultimate goals.

Dedue is meant to be His Highness’ sword and shield. He must be the weapon that clears the path to His Highness’ goals. Weapons do not think. Weapons do not have emotions.

A friend…

It would be so easy, to give in. To devote himself to His Highness in that way. To go back to how they treated each other when they first met nine years ago. When His Highness pulled him out of that dark abyss, and gave him reason to go on living. They would walk through the gardens of Fhirdiad, hand in hand. They would train, with swords, fists, anything they could think of. Smooth each other’s dress shirts and laugh at how silly and formal it felt. They did it all together.

Now, together bears a different meaning. Together, like a soldier wears his armor. That is all Dedue can be for now. There are vital matters at stake, and he must not dull until they come to pass. Until then… _Friend_ remains a distant hope for the future.

“I think that His Highness can use me however he sees fit,” Dedue says finally. “For now, that means carving through his enemies for him as we march to Enbarr. He doesn’t need friends for that – only soldiers.”

Ashe looks down into his vegetable-filled basket, forlorn. “I don’t want to believe that’s all there is to it,” he says softly. “Carrying all that pain for nine long years…there’s no way anyone can possibly do that on their own. Everyone needs at least one person to confide in.”

Dedue thinks back to His Highness, just last night – how the chains of the voices of the dead tightened like a noose around him. He’d spoken freely, though. Dedue highly doubted His Highness had been that candid with anyone else at the monastery. Not even Lord Fraldarius or the professor.

But that was because only Dedue could see His Highness for what he truly was.

“As long as I can keep him safe,” Dedue says, “I care not for anything else.”

Ashe twists a tomato from its vine, and it comes off at just the right angle. “You should know, Dedue, that he doesn’t accept any magical healing from anyone. Not even Mercedes.”

Now this is information that Dedue needs to hear, something he can work with. He pats the soil evenly, satisfied with his work, and he pushes himself to his feet to fetch the second empty basket. He trades it for the basket Ashe has just finished filling.

“I’ll take this one ahead to the kitchens,” he offers. “Thank you for your time. It was…nice.”

Ashe flashes a freckled, dimpled smile. Earnestly says, “It was nice to see you too, Dedue. Let’s do this again soon.”

This, he thinks, is closer to a real form a friendship.

He doesn’t linger on the idea, though, because if he remembers correctly, Mercedes is on lunch duty today, and it is imperative that he speak with her. If Ashe’s implications were true, then a different approach would be necessary. After all – without his health, His Highness will be in no shape to honor the dead. There is more to keeping him safe than to just watch out for him on the battlefield.

Thankfully, Mercedes is indeed in the kitchens, staring into one of the pantries with a thoughtful expression on her face. Dedue clears his throat to make his presence known, and she turns to him with a bright smile.

“It’s so nice to see you, Dedue,” she greets him warmly, demonstrating that inane skill of hers to make even the most reprehensible of people feel welcome and appreciated. Dedue hadn’t realized he missed it until this moment.

“You look well,” he tells her in return. She’s cut her hair short now – practical – but she may be one of his classmates who have changed the least. If she’s been scarred or hardened by the past five years of war, she hides it well.

“I am,” she says. “How have you been? I heard what happened to you in Fhirdiad five years ago. Were you injured badly? Have you fully recovered now?”

He nods an affirmative, as the details are too trivial to share.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mercedes says sincerely. “If ever your scars cause you any pain, or old injuries flare up, please come see me, okay?”

It won’t be necessary, but he tells her, “I’ll keep that in mind.” He holds up the basket of freshly picked garden vegetables. “Ashe harvested these this morning. I figured you could use some of them for lunch.”

Mercedes gratefully accepts the basket, eyes alight as she sifts through the variety. “This is wonderful! I can make a lovely stew with some of these, I think.”

“That is a good idea,” Dedue agrees.

Mercedes beams at him. “If you see him before I do, please thank Ashe for me. And thank you for bringing them to me.”

“It was nothing.” He pauses. “Will you allow me to help you?”

“Of course!”

They fall into an easy pattern of rinsing and chopping and mixing vegetables, of preparing meat to go with them. It’s been over five years since they worked together in the kitchens, but it feels like no time has passed at all.

It’s soothing and rhythmic, and so Dedue is loath to break it, but he has more important matters at hand.

“Mercedes,” he starts, as he peels his final carrot. “You’ve been tending to the wounded, right?”

“Well, Professor Manuela is leading the healers,” Mercedes begins, “but yes, I’m helping out here and there where I can.” A clear understatement of her knack with divine healing magic, but Dedue does not correct her this time.

“Does His Highness get wounded often in battle?”

“Oh.” Mercedes’ expression grows somber, and she lays her cutting knife to rest on the counter. “Dimitri’s a powerful fighter. Usually he’s the one wounding others. I don’t think he’s sustained anything serious since we found him.”

Dedue peels the last thin strip of coating from the carrot, the tip of the knife just reaching his thumb at the perfect depth to not break the skin. “And minor injuries?”

“Scrapes and bruises, I suppose,” she says. “But he doesn’t let anyone touch him.”

He sets on chopping the carrots into rounds. “And they’re healing on their own? They’re not slowing him down?”

Mercedes shakes her head. “Not as far as I can tell,” she admits. “Even if they were causing him grief, the crest of Blaiddyd makes up for it.” She lets out a sigh. “Though I can’t imagine it’s pleasant, fighting that way.”

Dedue scoops up the carrots and dumps them into the pot with the potatoes and onions. “I see.”

Mercedes must think him in need of reassurance, because she hastily adds, “He could be using salve on his own, though!”

He knows very well that she is not that naïve, that she is one of the more insightful people here in Garreg Mach. So it is easy to answer, “Doubtful,” and watch her nod her assent.

“Well,” Mercedes says, “I’ve been praying to the Duscur god of war for our continued success in battle.”

This is the first thing to truly startle Dedue since his return. “You have?”

She nods, taking up her knife once more and working on some of the meat. “Ever since we spoke of the Duscur gods five years ago, I’ve been trying to include them in my prayers wherever possible.” Her brow furrows with sudden concern. “Am I not doing that right?”

Dedue shakes his head. “No, that is fine. They accept prayers of all sorts.”

Relief floods Mercedes’ face. “Oh, thank goodness,” she exclaims. She turns to him quizzically. “So, would there be a Duscur god of healing as well?”

“There is a god of life, of nature,” Dedue says.

“I see,” Mercedes says, nodding. “Well then, I will pray to them so that Dimitri can heal quickly and naturally from his wounds.”

Dedue gives her a small smile. “That is very kind of you.”

“You both deserve it,” she replies.

Dedue’s brain short-circuits for a moment. _Both?_ But in an instant, when he blinks and regains his faculties, Mercedes is humming along and adding coating to her meat cubes with spices and herbs. He shakes his mind clear of the implications of her statement and moves to help her finish preparing the meal. There are more pressing matters to attend to.

Such as His Highness. Now, Dedue can formulate a plan of action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Dimitri has a headache.


	3. Chapter 3

Dedue came to him again that night by the cathedral rubble, but this time, it was early enough in the evening that the dead weren’t quite as pervasive and frustrated as they would be when it grew closer to the time he should sleep. That, of course, was their favorite time to converse.

This time, Dimitri was acutely aware of Dedue’s heavy footsteps marching down the aisle of somewhat broken, but perfectly empty pews.

This time, Dimitri spoke first, without turning around to look at him.

“What do you want?”

He listened to the sound of Dedue’s slow intake of breath, held and released softly. “I have something I would like to say to you.”

Dimitri huffed. Dedue was not one to waste words. “Speak, then.”

He was met with silence.

_The living have nothing to say to you,_ Glenn hissed.

Dimitri bristled with sudden irritation and anger. Trembling, he turned around to see what the fuss was about –

And yet all he saw was Dedue standing stoically before him, calm as ever. He opened his mouth, and Dimitri belatedly realized Dedue had wanted him to turn around all along.

_Stupid, pointless games. Are they not worth cutting down for this?_

Dedue’s voice cut through the fallen. “I cannot apologize for dying,” he said, and Dimitri blinked, frowned, not comprehending. “My choices were my own, and I chose my execution in exchange for your survival. I cannot apologize for not being there as a consequence.”

Dimitri’s chest tightened, as if a snake had coiled around his lungs, restricting the amount of air he could get through, and his breaths grew short and labored. Couldn’t Dedue see the agony his sacrifice put him through? Why couldn’t he see that?

Dedue bent down and took a knee, but his eyes met Dimitri’s, and he saw purpose in them, truth and fervor.

“Let me help you now.”

Dimitri stared. “That’s…it?”

“Your Highness?”

_You are the one who must bring us her head, _his father growled.

He laughed, throat constricting until he choked on it. “And how exactly do you plan to help, Dedue? Everyone says they will help me take Enbarr, but that doesn’t stop them from shying away from me every time I so much as look in their direction. They can’t bear to get too close to me, for fear of becoming a monster themselves. Just what do you expect to accomplish here?”

“How are your wounds?” asked Dedue.

“My –” Their meaning caught up to the words in Dimitri’s head, tendrils of dread creeping down his spine.

“I’ve seen you limping,” Dedue offered gently, softer than a man of his bulk had any right to be.

The voices offered their opinions much louder.

_You are a brutal killer. A monster._

_You will live with these wounds, just as you deserve._

A scarred and calloused dark hand, the faintest whisper of a warm touch on his ankle –

“Don’t touch me!”

Dimitri stumbled backward so quickly he lost his balance, and nothing could stop him from landing directly on his tailbone with a heavy grunt of pain.

_No one can help you._

_They can only hurt or hinder you._

_Why are you wasting our time?_

The spot on his ankle that Dedue had just barely touched burned like a brand, spreading like an itch through the rest of his limbs. Dimitri hissed, pulse hammering in his ears. It could have been so soothing – it could have been the balm he needed to –

This was wrong. This was all wrong.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped.

“For what?” Dedue asked calmly.

Dimitri squeezed his eye shut, unable to bear looking at that face for fear of what he might find in the depth of Dedue’s eyes.

_You disappoint us, _his father said dismissively.

The shame washed over him, filled his lungs, threatened to suffocate him. “I’m sorry,” he wheezed again. He didn’t know who he was apologizing to anymore. “I’m trying to –”

“Your Highness.”

Dedue’s voice pierced the veil clouding Dimitri’s mind once more, and fresh air entered his lungs. He sucked in a deep breath, opened his eye to find Dedue sitting on his knees, just in front of him, hands firmly in his lap. His face an open door, a welcome inside.

“May I touch your ankle?”

_Help is for the weak. _

_Do you really expect to avenge us like this?_

He was a monster, but he was so, so weak. That’s why they haunted him, wasn’t it? He’d been too weak to bring them that woman’s head in the past. Nine years later, he was closer, but moving at an agonizingly slow pace. If he’d only been stronger…

Dimitri couldn’t bear to look at Dedue like that. Heart caught in his throat, he nodded.

The touch returned, and Dimitri jolted, feeling as though his entire body had just been electrified. He squeezed his eye shut and pulled his leg back into himself.

“I’m just going to take your boot off, for now,” Dedue said. “Your Highness, please try to relax. Take a deep breath.”

At this point, he’d embarrassed and shamed himself so much there was no going back, and no use fighting or denying it. Dimitri obeyed. With the rise of his chest, a hand closed around his boot. With its fall, the boot was smoothly pulled off.

The rest of the air rattled out of him. “Good,” Dedue said softly. “I’m going to inspect your ankle, now. Is that all right?”

“Yes,” Dimitri whispered.

This time, he braced himself for the touch of another’s skin against his own, but even so, he was not prepared for his body and mind to be so detached from one another. His brain had barely registered _heat_, _tender_, before his reflexes took hold and he lashed out at Dedue’s hand with a swift kick.

Dedue caught him firmly by the foot in both hands, expressionless as ever. That he was so immovable made Dimitri want to retaliate on purpose this time. Why wasn’t he upset? Why didn’t he _care_?

“I care,” Dedue said, and Dimitri startled. “But this will not anger me.”

“What will?” Dimitri found himself asking, anything to distract himself from the fact that the barrier between his mind and the outside world had once again wavered, the waves of pain that came from being unable to think straight.

Dedue’s fingers flexed against his foot, working against the muscle and tendons there, feeling their way towards his ankle. In that instant, Dimitri’s senses condensed down to a single thought: sore, across his entire body. He wanted, suddenly, for those hands to work over all of his muscles, to ease the burden of countless physical aches he hadn’t been aware of until that very moment.

“I will always feel anger towards those who destroyed my homeland,” Dedue said, “as well as the people who hurt you. But the effect they’ve had on you…that gives me no cause for anger.”

Dedue reached the tight knot beneath his ankle, and Dimitri inhaled sharply. Dedue’s grip instantly relaxed. Two fingers smoothed over the tender skin, a testing rub, and Dimitri released a ragged exhale.

_Weak._

“Are they angry at me, too?” Dedue asked.

Dimitri had to think about that one. They were loud, vengeful, filling his head so he couldn’t tell left from right, visions from reality – but no. There was always one singular direction for their venom, pounding relentless against the walls of his brain.

“I don’t believe so,” he answered. “At me, yes, but…” He trailed off. That was normal. That was to be expected. It had been nine long years.

Dedue hummed. “Would you not like to silence them for a time?”

The hairs on the back of Dimitri’s neck prickled with annoyance, twitching along with the ache in his head. “They will rest once I have avenged them,” he snapped. “You know this.”

Dedue worked soothing motions into his ankle, exhibiting a patience Dimitri was certain he didn’t deserve. “I meant in the meantime. At night, so you can sleep.”

“I –”

It wasn’t possible. Dimitri tried to wrap his mind around the concept, but pain seared between his temples instead: a severe warning that the dead would never release him. He groaned, hunched over. Brought his hands to his head, as if he could cage it in and snuff it out.

Tentative fingers brushed against his forehead, sweeping strands of hair aside. Matted with sweat from exertion he hadn’t realized he’d expended. Slow, soothing circles rubbed against his temples. Warmth. Peace. A shore on a bright, sandy beach he could wash up on and bask in.

It had always felt so far away – on the other side of an insurmountable peak. Now, it was just within reach. He could taste the sea-salted air on his tongue…

“Are you all right, Your Highness.”

Dimitri’s eye fluttered open to a high, cracked ceiling. His fingers twitched against smooth, cold ground. His head, though. Cradled in swaths of soft cloth. Floral scents he couldn’t place. Fingers that were not his own still working at his temples.

He craned his neck and found himself staring into a sea of green eyes. Surrounding them: white hair, dark skin, mottled with scars.

Words formed around his lips, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

Dedue said, “You lost consciousness. I made sure you did not hit your head.”

Dimitri sighed, suddenly shaky and clammy and weak. “H-How long?”

“Only a few seconds, I think.”

“I see.”

The world around him and within him was strangely silent. He should sit up, but Dimitri couldn’t bring himself to wrench himself away.

“Has this happened before?” Dedue asked.

Dimitri nodded slowly. “When my headaches get particularly fierce,” he said.

“How often?”

“Not very.” He licked his lips, saliva stinging the dry cracks. “A handful of times in the past couple of years.”

“And how is your head now?”

A gentle caress in just the right place, and Dimitri’s entire body melted into the ground. “Mm. Good.”

“We should get you to a bed.”

Beds were not Dimitri’s friend. They rejected him, tempted him with false hopes of rest only to turn around and betray him. But this episode had drained him of any willpower he had left for the night. He was weak, after all. But the warmth against his head promised him strength, if he only could rest for a little while…

The world blurred in and out around him, and Dimitri only remembered time in fragments.

He was helped to his feet, but he experienced the whole thing in a daze. The walk back to his chambers was hazy at best. The single focusing point was the heat pressed against his side from hip to cheek, commanding but soft. A scarf around his neck, smell of flowers around him. In the fog that was his consciousness, he somehow found himself horizontal again. Clutching the scarf tight to his face. Breathing in the scent of peace.

For the first time in a long time, Dimitri slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I decided to cut this one short and I keep bumping back the quote from the fic summary, it'll be in the next chapter I promise


	4. Chapter 4

Dedue makes the executive decision not to be a mother bird and leaves His Highness dozing peacefully in Dedue’s quarters, closing the door quietly behind him. His Highness had been in no condition to even make an attempt at stairs. Besides, there are plenty of other vacant chambers Dedue can sleep in in the meantime. Better for His Highness to remain in a semi-familiar environment. Usually, Dedue would meet him at the door to His Highness’ room, not the other way around, but in this case it couldn’t be helped.

The cool spring night’s breeze catches him against his now-exposed neck, and he shivers a little. He makes his way down the corridor past Ashe’s quarters to what he presumes will be the first vacant room, knocks on the door just in case, peeks inside, and finally enters for the night.

He also concludes that he should not check on His Highness first thing in the morning, but rather afford him whatever space he may need after the night’s events. It’s been many years since His Highness granted him permission to manipulate an injury and, given His Highness’ state of mind as of late, Dedue’s not entirely certain he will remember it fondly when he wakes.

Anger towards him is fine, though. Dedue can bear that, if it means His Highness will have recovered some. He spends his day helping the merchants reestablishing their wares in the slowly recovering marketplace and rescuing Annette from almost setting fire to the kitchen.

That night, Dedue tentatively pokes his head into his own room. Empty, with bedsheets strewn haphazardly across both the mattress and floor. Teal scarf crumpled in a heap on the pillow. Everything else is exactly how he left it.

He sits down at the edge of the mattress and reaches for his scarf, brings it close to his face. It smells a bit more strongly of sweat than he remembers. There’s also a small tear, as if a set of nails dug and raked too hard. And it’s stained.

Better His Highness leave it here, for Dedue to mend and clean. The extra task will prove useful. He will need to find plenty of other work to do, if he’s guessed right.

Sure enough, Dedue does not see His Highness for three days.

He busies himself with helping out around the monastery: gardening, cooking, supply runs, anything that he can put his skills to use with. There is no shortage of tasks requiring attention, and so they leave little free time to stop and think, and worry. That is good, and just the way Dedue likes it. Besides, his cause is true. Any help he provides here helps His Highness’ campaign along. He doesn’t need to stand directly by his side to be of use. And it absolutely doesn’t matter if he wants to or not.

So, the work is good.

He’s gone for the entirety of the fourth day, out scouting with Ashe, Ingrid, and some of the knights. Ingrid flies ahead and pinpoints the location of a small squadron of Imperial soldiers, no doubt trying to sneak past their territory. Ashe thins their numbers before they have a chance to retaliate. Dedue personally makes sure that none are left alive.

He bathes quickly upon their return in the evening, careful not to waste precious water, and makes his way to the cathedral.

His eyes lock onto the back of that long fur coat the moment he sets foot inside. There are a few Knights of Seiros kneeling at the pews in prayer, so Dedue waits for them to finish and leave before stepping past them towards the rubble of the altar. If there is to be a disturbance, better it occurs with no one else present.

If His Highness hears him approaching, he gives no indication of it. Dedue watches his back from several paces away and says nothing.

For a few minutes, it seems as though nothing will happen. Then, His Highness gives a full-body shudder and begins muttering to himself.

Dedue doesn’t mean to break the silence, but he says anyway, “Your Highness.”

His Highness flinches once, then does not move. “What do you want?” He sounds bored, on the edge of tipping into annoyance.

“I came to check on you,” Dedue answers.

His Highness says, “Leave me be.”

Dedue goes.

~o~

He catches glimpses of His Highness’ coat sweeping across the monastery grounds, mostly in and out of the cathedral, but he doesn’t travel far. He meets no one’s eyes as he goes, always radiating an aura of anger, like someone who will snap the moment he is disturbed.

Dedue does not try to catch his eye, nor does he approach. But at some point, when everyone has eaten and Dedue is cleaning the empty plates, His Highness appears from out of nowhere and approaches the kitchen counter.

There are still leftovers in the pot. He scoops some into the plate he’d just cleaned and places it on the counter, careful not to make eye contact.

“Dedue.”

He snaps to attention to find His Highness staring at him with that one cool, calculating eye, brow furrowed.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

They stand staring at each other for a long time. Dedue searches His Highness’ face for any traces of emotion, but comes up empty. He has no idea what he might be thinking right now.

Finally, His Highness takes the plate and moves to sit at one of the tables to eat.

Dedue is almost done cleaning up when His Highness returns the plate, now empty. The small satisfaction of having correctly guessed the portion size weighs heavy in his gut against all else.

“Thank you,” says His Highness.

“You’re welcome,” Dedue responds.

This time, Dedue sees the uncertainty flitting across His Highness’ eye, the telltale flush building in his cheeks that accompanies a growing frustration.

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course,” Dedue says. That is simple enough. His Highness knows that Dedue would perform any task he requires, no matter how dull, no matter how gruesome. “What is it?”

“Meet me by the pond when you are finished.” His Highness’ face steels over, and with a sweep of his coat, he turns his back and walks out of the dining hall.

Dedue cleans the last plate quickly, wipes down the tables and counters, and heads out to join him. He finds him standing at the edge of the dock, staring up at the clear night’s sky, littered with stars. It’s been a long time since they were boys, sneaking out past their curfew to gaze at the stars together, yet those tiny pinpricks of light are ever the same.

“What is it you would ask of me?” Dedue asks once he reaches the dock.

His Highness does not turn to look at him, but Dedue supposes that’s fair, this time. “They left me alone, you know.”

Dedue doesn’t need to ask what he means. He breathes out slowly, and his shoulders lose some of their tension. “I am glad to hear it.”

“They didn’t like it, afterwards.”

“Hmm.” Dedue considers this, carefully chooses the direction of his next question. “Did you?”

Shoulders curling in, as if he’s shrinking in on himself. “I did.” Embarrassed. Ashamed.

Dedue watches the moonlight catch against His Highness’ hair in places, setting off a dim glow. “Was it worth it?”

This time, barely a whisper along with the breeze. “Yes.”

Dedue suspects he knows where this conversation is going, but it’s not his place to take the next step unprompted. “You told me they were getting louder,” he says instead. “If that is the cause of your debilitating headaches, it is most beneficial to put a stop to them, so that you may find fortune on the battlefield, and use it to bring them their eventual peace.”

His shoulders heave with a deep intake of breath. “How can I – will you show me how to do that again?”

“Yes,” Dedue answers instantly. He pauses, takes a breath of his own before he risks sounding too eager or forceful. Truth is, he’d already toyed with this possibility in his mind; that night’s incident only confirmed that it would be the right method to help His Highness.

Except… “There is something I would like to try with you, Your Highness, if you will let me. But you might not approve of it, or like it.”

This time, His Highness turns to face him. The shadows cast by the moonlight over his face make his sunken eye stand out even more than usual. He already looks haunted, but now his gaunt, pale face looks every bit like he has joined the dead, another ghost to join their ranks.

“Then why do you think of suggesting it?” he demands, voice gruff.

“I would not suggest it if I did not think it was the best course of action,” Dedue says firmly.

His Highness’ frown deepens, and he scoffs as though he has several snide opinions about that. “That’s what they all say,” he seethes. “But you know what? I do not care. Spit out your thoughts, or let them remain just that. In the end, it matters not what you choose. So long as I can have her head…”

This time, Dedue catches on to the warning signs. He sees the shakiness in His Highness’ fingers, the slight buckle of his knees. The breaths turning heavy and ragged.

He exhales, straightens his spine. “Very well. I will speak my mind.

“I believe to get them to quiet, you need to get out of your head as well.”

His focus narrows down to that one suspicious eye squinting in his direction. “And how,” His Highness all but growls, “do you expect me to do that?”

“I think you should kneel, while I tend to your wounds.”

He expects His Highness to lash out immediately, but it appears the surprise roots him in place instead. The only changes are in his face, his brow narrowing even further, his upper lip parting and curling.

“Explain yourself,” he orders.

Dedue obeys. “You walk with sore muscles and limbs, bruises and scrapes. Your ankle felt better afterwards, did it not? It would help to treat your body on a larger scale.”

Anyone else would find this a satisfactory answer. His Highness, however, grips his lance tight and slams it forward into the wood, the untamed power of the Blaiddyd crest combined with its relic sending splinters flying up like sparks.

His Highness snarls, voice dripping with venom, “And what, pray tell, does kneeling have anything to do with it?”

Dedue closes his eyes, bares himself to His Highness’ wrath. “I do not have the words to explain this. I would ask instead that you trust me. Trust that I would not do anything without purpose.”

“_Idiot_,” His Highness scowls, but Dedue will take it as a victory.

Even so, weighing his options, he thinks His Highness might need some more time to get used to the idea. Rushing in is probably the best way to ensure no progress gets made at all.

“How bad have your headaches been, since they have returned?” he asks.

His Highness winces, just a little. “Not as bad as before,” he admits. “But they’ll get there. They always do.”

And Dedue wishes for nothing more than to smooth the creases in His Highness’ brow, to rub his thumbs across the spots he knows would make His Highness’s entire body go limp and relaxed like he deserves to be more often.

But, he thinks it’s telling how His Highness hasn’t seemed to notice Dedue’s lack of Duscur scarf, and hasn’t acknowledged once what he did to it.

“Tomorrow evening, then,” Dedue proposes. “Come by my room once you’ve eaten.” He looks His Highness up and down. “There will be no need for your lance and your armor.”

His Highness scoffs extra loud at that. “I will wear what I damn well please,” he glowers.

Dedue holds back a sigh. “Very well.”

He meets His Highness’ glare, rising to whatever challenge he may be throwing down. He hopes his expression conveys all he means to say: _I just want to help you. I know it’s hard for you to do right now, but please, trust me_.

He’s not at all sure he gets any of that across. At some point, His Highness breaks eyes contact and shoves past him to leave the dock – surprisingly strong against Dedue’s bulk, actually able to displace him a little – and storms off into the night.

Dedue feels a low throb where His Highness’ shoulder made contact with his chest. Not enough to bruise, but a brief, fading reminder that things may not ever be what they used to. But that’s why Dedue is here, after all.

He stays a little longer, contemplates what he must get done ahead of tomorrow night. If this is going to work, he will have to be very careful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go, things are finally kicking off. Also, I think I have one chapter left before the fic is completely done, so hopefully a chapter count will be incoming soon! They're also finally gonna get longer after this.
> 
> Next chapter: Dimitri gets in a fight.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally getting somewhere! Slowly. I'm still not done writing what should end up being the final (16th) chapter, so I'm gonna keep updating once a week until that gets settled, and maybe move to twice a week once everything is finalized. Also, the chapters will all be a little longer from here on out, now that all the preamble is out of the way. Thanks for bearing with me!

Dimitri paced.

The cathedral was filled with people come to give their daily prayers. And more, besides. He vaguely wondered if there was something big going on, for prayers to be conducted in such high numbers. Even Mercedes and the professor were there, and he did not miss how their eyes tracked him, just like everyone’s did.

Eyes on him like a searing brand. Dimitri hated it.

They’d already said their piece. They’d already made their pitiful concerns known. They’d already formulated a plan of action. He didn’t give a rat’s ass how they would do it, so long as the plan was to move towards Enbarr. If strategy made them feel safer, so be it. He had no need for their safekeeping. He was much stronger than that.

_You are weak,_ his father said dismissively. _A king kneels for no one._

Dimitri ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it around. It was matted and greasy, but he did not care. It would rain at some point.

He paced back and forth across the rubble, unable to shake the strange new tension that had seized his entire body ever since Dedue had uttered those horrible words.

_I think you should kneel, while I tend to your wounds._

_I think you should kneel._

_Kneel. _

“Silence!” Dimitri yelled, whirled around and slashed Areadbhar downwards. The power flowed freely through him, funneling into his stance, his swing, his weapon. It screeched against the cold stone, carving a long but shallow gash across the floor. The wailing impact reverberated through every bone in his body, echoing against the rushing of blood in his ears.

When the cacophony threatened to split his head apart, Dimitri shook himself over, blinking furiously, and it was like a fog beginning to clear. As it did, he became aware of voices echoing nearby. Hushed whispers, fearful and concerned.

_Keep them at a distance, _his stepmother advised him. _They will put you down, given the chance._

_I think you should kneel,_ Dedue had said.

Dimitri yanked his lance out of the ground with a forceful cry. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the professor stepping towards him, hand moving towards her sword belt. Before she could get any closer, he thrust the relic outwards, the sharp tip glinting in her direction.

“Stay away from me,” he growled.

Mercifully, the professor listened. Her hand fell back to her side, and, giving him one last glance, turned back to the knights who had gathered behind her. No doubt calling off their attack.

_You could have taken them, _Glenn said.

It had been nearly a week since Areadbhar had pierced skin, drawn blood. Too long. Dimitri moved towards them with purpose, weapon held firmly at his side. He saw the panic in their wide eyes and grinned.

They parted, leaving the aisle open, and he stomped past them out of the cathedral.

He moved as if possessed, feet taking confident steps his mind had no awareness of. Bloodlust had clouded his thoughts, made it impossible to concentrate on anything else. Nothing else mattered but the violent desire to locate the nearest Empire soldiers and rip them apart, limb from limb, relishing their mangled screams like the monster he was.

When his feet finally slowed and rooted to the ground once more, he found himself in the training grounds. Where there were no Empire loyalists.

But there was Felix.

Felix, who looked upon him with more disdain than Dimitri ever remembered seeing.

“What are you doing, boar?” Felix sneered. Dimitri’s eye tracked to where his hand gripped his training sword.

“I don’t want to talk,” Dimitri snapped. He pointed the tip of his lance at the man he’d once called friend. “Fight me.”

“Hmph. For once, we can agree on something.” With a quick sweep of his arm and flick of his wrist, Felix threw the training sword directly at Dimitri’s face.

Dimitri dropped Areadbhar and caught the sword from its dull blade side. Casually flipped it until his hand closed upon the handle instead.

Felix grabbed a spare training sword, smirking. “So the rabid beast still has some semblance of skill,” he noted. “This will do.”

_Enough talk._

Dimitri charged.

Felix dodged easily, but Dimitri did not stop there. He threw himself into an offensive assault, sword slashing relentlessly. There was no way Felix was fast enough to dodge them all. He switched into a defensive stance, skillfully parrying each blow.

Good. He could keep up. That would make the fight more interesting.

Dimitri pursued his attack, giving Felix no room to counter. Still, Felix endured, and had Dimitri cared to pay closer attention, he would have noticed that Felix was hardly breaking a sweat.

Feet and blades danced across the grounds as they collided, separated, collided in a never-ending cycle. The longer it persisted, the more Dimitri craved. Finally, a worthy opponent. Someone who could test his strength, someone whose inevitable defeat would bring him endless satisfaction. How sweet it would taste when he finally tore that head from those shoulders…

He didn’t see it coming. One moment, he was launching a series of powerful strikes sure to force even the strongest of fighters to their knees. The next, Felix had parried, twisted, and Dimitri felt a crack on the right side of his head, perfectly in his blind spot.

How _dare_ that bastard strike him that way? The sheer audacity sent Dimitri’s blood boiling, ready to overflow, and he let the Blaiddyd crest’s power flood through him. With a feral roar, he spun, gripped his weapon in both hands and brought it down straight for his opponent’s head.

A heavy clash of swords, a hefty sweep of a leg right at the back of his knee, and suddenly Dimitri was stumbling, his hands empty as the sword went whirling into the air, landing in a far corner. Standing between him and his goal, a fierce obstacle. But at his feet…

Dimitri lunged, and even though a sword came swinging at him, he met it head on with an arm and a fist. Throbbing pain, a pulse throughout his arm spreading to the rest of his body upon impact, but he paid it no heed.

He dropped downwards, picked up the lance he had left down on the ground, and thrust it straight up towards his enemy’s face.

“Your Highness, stop!”

From out of nowhere, another lance collided with his own, rapped against his fingers, forcing the weapon out of his hands. Strong arms grabbed him from behind, pulled him backwards. Dimitri thrashed against this new enemy. He would not allow the Empire to stop him like this. He would tear each of them apart with his bare hands so he could reach that damned woman.

“Your Highness, that’s enough!”

Dimitri whipped his elbow back, drawing a surprised grunt from his assailant, and stumbled forward, free. Found himself staring into silver and green armor – not Empire colors – and short, neatly kept blonde hair.

Ingrid, with her lance steady in front of her, holding a defensive stance. Her brow defiant, her eyes full of worry. Behind her, Felix straightened upright, wiped his sleeve across his cheek. A smear of blood, vibrant and red.

“Your Highness, what in the world were you thinking?” Ingrid demanded. “Drawing your lance on Felix like that!”

Dimitri’s breaths were ragged from exertion. When had he expended so much energy on this fight?

“I was –”

“Trying to kill the people who are helping you?” the other voice said from behind him, and Dimitri turned to see the mop of red hair that could only belong to Sylvain, sitting on his behind from where Dimitri had knocked him back when he’d broken free.

“Don’t waste your breath trying to reason with a wild boar,” Felix cut in. Dimitri twisted his neck back to him and met with a glare as sharp as any dagger. “It won’t do you any good. We’re done here.” And with that, he turned and strode from the training grounds.

Sylvain pulled himself to his feet, calling, “Felix, wait!” and took the first long strides of a running start after him.

Ingrid remained for a moment longer, her full attention on Dimitri. Her eyes blazed with something he could not place. Finally, she lowered her lance and followed the others out of the grounds.

~o~

The training grounds saw at least two dozen people step in, then immediately backtrack away when they noticed Dimitri standing there, before Dimitri finally picked up his discarded lance and left the area. It was dusk now, the sky tinted with gentle pinks and oranges that had no place in a world where Edelgard still kept her head atop her shoulders. He needed to fix that, soon. Every day that passed where he could have been working towards her was another weight with which the dead sat on his shoulders.

He stared ahead, off in the direction of the first floor living quarters. He remembered the layout instinctively, even though he had only been there once recently.

Sleeping through the night for the first time in years. Waking up in Dedue’s room, the colors and smells of Duscur blooms all around. His entire body feeling rested, recovered, ready to take on the world with newfound energy.

And there was no way a monster like him could possibly deserve it.

Even so, did a monster deserve to be satisfied? Did he truly deserve peace after avenging the dead? That was for them, not him. He deserved nothing past that point but a slow and agonizing death.

He was standing in front of Dedue’s door and knocking on it before he’d ever had the chance to think.

The door opened to reveal Dedue, expressionless as ever, usual armor discarded, now simply wearing loose, comfortable-looking breeches and tunic. His hair was out of its ponytail, but combed back, smoothed out of his face. A face decorated with scars of injuries he’d sustained when he died in exchange for Dimitri’s freedom.

“Your Highness,” Dedue said, stepping out of the way. “Please come in.”

Dimitri stepped past him into the room and stopped in the center of it. The room smelled just as sweet as the last time he’d been in here, the air warm and inviting. He didn’t trust it.

_I think you should kneel._

A soft click, and the door closed behind him. Dedue stood with his back to the door and stayed there. “Will you remove your armor, Your Highness?” he asked.

This wasn’t right. The voices descended upon him like vultures, but he already knew this with certainty.

_You do not need to bend for any of them. They are all here for you. For us._

“Dedue,” Dimitri started, his voice low, threatening. “You swore to serve me, did you not?”

“I did."

“Then attend me,” Dimitri commanded.

Unflinchingly, Dedue nodded and stepped into his space. He took Areadbhar from Dimitri’s hands, unclasped his cloak, set them aside carefully in a corner. Then he set to work on the buckles of Dimitri’s armor.

Satisfaction coiled beneath Dimitri’s ribs. This was better. This was how it should be.

A tiny part of him, somewhere, cried out against it. That this was never how it was supposed to be.

Was it, though?

They used to be friends. They used to smile and laugh and speak on first-name basis. Dedue had been the one to harden, to shy away, to call him by his title. Dedue had been the one to reject all of Dimitri’s attempts at regaining what they’d lost.

If Dedue didn’t want that anymore, then it was high time Dimitri hardened his own heart and utilized Dedue’s unwavering loyalty as it was meant to be used.

The final piece of armor was removed, and Dimitri stepped out of his boots, feeling bare. If Empire soldiers came after him now, he would be practically defenseless. But, if he could act quick enough, he could still their blades before they’d even swing them in his direction.

Dedue knocked the boots together and placed them in the corner with the rest of the armor, all neatly piled and propped. The pieces looked alien to him that way. They were not made to look pretty; they were made so Dimitri could kill.

He stood in silence as Dedue moved around the room. Watched as Dedue reached for a pillow from his bed, and deposited it on the ground in front of Dimitri’s feet.

The sight of the pillow on the floor before him jolted his body like it was struck by lightning and he hissed, took a step backwards. This was an image of subjugation, of loss of will, of –

“Your Highness,” Dedue said evenly. “I would like to massage your shoulders. Do I have your permission to touch you?”

Dimitri gritted his teeth, digging his heels into the floor. “You do,” he managed, lips curled. Took a few breaths, in and out. He was still the one giving the orders.

Dedue stepped behind him. Dimitri could feel the large presence looming behind him, the heat radiating off his body. He flinched the moment large, calloused hands descended and came to rest on his shoulders, but Dedue was not deterred. Palms stroked his shoulders from top to side, slowly, rhythmically. Nothing more. Just that repetitive motion. Eventually, Dimitri felt some of the tension leak away when he exhaled, and his shoulders relaxed.

Then Dedue murmured in his ear, “You will be more comfortable if you sit,” and every single nerve in Dimitri’s body lit up with panic.

He was flailing his arms and kicking behind him before he could even think about it. His foot caught Dedue right in the shin with a satisfying thump, and Dedue’s resulting grunt of pain spurred him on further. He twisted around to strike, but suddenly his arm was pinned behind him, joint locked in a commanding grip.

Dimitri glared back at him, as much as he could turn his neck without the pain of an imminent arm break should he struggle too much. Dedue raised his trapped arm, and Dimitri growled in pain as he was forced to bend over, lower to the ground. Resist as he might, he could not overcome Dedue’s hold. Legs trembling violently, Dimitri had no choice but to let them give way until his knees fell soft against the pillow on the floor.

“How dare you,” Dimitri snarled, furious beyond belief, and all he wanted now was to wrench himself free, let his arm break in the process, if that would allow him the opportunity to lay a lethal strike.

“You gave me permission to touch you,” Dedue said simply, and Dimitri’s insides turned to ice. “I had hoped it would not come to this.”

“What…what are you trying to do to me?” Dimitri asked. He was shaking again, fire and ice racing through him all at once, jumbled together until he couldn’t tell one from the other anymore.

Still keeping Dimitri pinned with one arm, Dedue brought his other hand to brush away the hair from the nape of Dimitri’s neck. The touch was scalding, and Dimitri let out a pitiful cry.

“I am only trying to help,” Dedue said. “Please, Your Highness, trust me for a few minutes longer.”

Five years ago, Dimitri would have trusted Dedue with anything. He longed, so desperately, to be able to do so now, but his body and mind both betrayed him. His heart would forever remain secondary since the collapse of Fhirdiad, since that wretched woman laid ruin to everything he once held dear.

The fingers at the back of his neck brushed ever-so lightly at his skin, tracing over goosebumps and making him shiver. The palm remained steady, pooling warmth that spread down his spine, branching to the rest of his limbs. Dimitri shakily released a held breath. The pain in his arm receded.

“Very good,” Dedue said, so quietly Dimitri almost wasn’t sure it was real, and not just part of his imagination.

A full-body shudder escaped him at that, and with it, more tension dissipated. Dedue’s thumb moved to press against a spot just below the back of his neck, and Dimitri’s eyes fluttered shut. Part of him wanted to blink himself fully awake, to stand and leave this horrible experience behind, but there was something about that pressure on his skin that commanded him to stay in place, and somehow, he felt compelled to obey.

Knuckles brushed between his shoulder blades, and this time, they were a welcome touch. Slowly they kneaded between layers of muscle, dug for tight and tender spots, sent waves of warmth through his entire body.

The effect was dizzying. It was good for him to keep his eyes closed.

His head felt light, lighter than it had ever been. Dedue’s hands were a balm across his back, his neck, his shoulders. His breathing slowed, sounding like a gentle breeze, one that blew flowers in from the fields so soft petals could dance against his skin. It was intoxicating.

The soothing pressure on the back of his neck grounded him in clouds. The rest of the world around him faded, all sensation focusing down to that one point until even that grew numb.

He sighed contentedly and let himself drift.

~o~

Awareness came back to him slowly. The world was hazy around him, and it took a moment before he regained enough feeling in his limbs to realize he was sitting back on his heels, a soft pillow beneath his knees, his arms limp at his sides and his head lulling forward.

And heat on his neck. Fingers not his own, little rubbing motions with the tips, no scratch of nails. The palm a steady presence.

He opened his mouth to speak. His lips cracked, dry. “Wha–” he started, but his voice broke, hoarse.

“Shh.” Dedue’s voice. Dedue’s hand on his skin. “Give yourself a few minutes.”

He blinked slowly, and his blurred vision began to clear. Ahead of him, he saw a bed. In the corner, dark solid objects came into focus. A few more moments, and they materialized into his armor. Following along the wall, he saw a desk, a few potted plants sitting on the wood, colorful flowers in bloom.

He swallowed, saliva not doing much to alleviate his dry throat, and opened his mouth again. “What happened?” he croaked, the words coming out this time, though soft and weak.

Dedue’s fingers continued their rhythmic motion, and he felt their magnetic pull, guiding him back into sweet nothingness. He wanted to go back to that place, but he also wanted to stay and hear the answer to his question.

“You got out of your head,” Dedue explained. “For a brief period. No more than an hour.”

He should have been surprised, but it was hard to react abruptly with such a light atmosphere surrounding him. He simply nodded in acknowledgement and focused on the warmth at his neck. Dedue’s touch was so nice.

“How do you feel?” Dedue asked.

He tilted his neck to the side, allowing Dedue’s fingers better access to a cord of muscle along his jawline. “Calm,” he mumbled.

“Good. Would you like some water?”

His parched throat was the only source of discomfort in his entire body. “Please.”

Dedue stretched for a small bowl sitting on the floor not too far from them. He reached around to hold it up in front of his face. Dimitri lifted his hands to the bowl, and together, they guided the water over his lips.

The first sips of water were cool and sweet, soothing all the scratches in his throat. When he tried to gulp hungrily for more, Dedue tilted the bowl backwards, just enough to stop him.

“Slowly,” he cautioned. “You’re not fully back yet.”

That didn’t make much sense to his peace-addled brain. “Back from what?”

Dedue shook his head. “I’ll explain later, when you’re more likely to remember the conversation.”

Dimitri wasn’t sure why Dedue thought he would forget if they had the conversation now, but bizarrely, he found he didn’t really mind either way. He took slow, careful drinks from the bowl, continuing until he’d drained the entire thing. When Dedue made a satisfied hum and discarded the bowl on the floor further away from them, Dimitri felt a swell of pride, like he’d just been praised for mastering a difficult technique.

Next, Dedue offered him a piece of fruit – he’d cut an apple into bite-sized cubes, it seemed. He accepted it and chewed slowly, looking back at Dedue expectantly. When he received a nod of approval and a second bite, his heart did a little flip.

It was only once he finished eating that he realized the touch was gone from his neck. He reached back instinctively to trace the patterns there, and found the area still radiating heat. He smiled to himself, indulged in the sensation for the brief moments before it faded along with what remained of the fog over the rest of his senses.

Dedue pushed himself to his feet and offered Dimitri a hand. “Do you think you’re ready to stand, Your Highness?”

Dimitri nodded, and took the outstretched arm. He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, where he swayed for a moment, then steadied. He stretched, arms reaching as close as he could to the ceiling, legs pushing into the ground, and then he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, gingerly testing. His muscles were looser and more relaxed than they’d been since before his imprisonment at Fhirdiad.

“This is incredible,” he said in amazement.

Dedue smiled at him, and Dimitri’s breath caught in his throat. “I am glad to hear you say that,” he replied. “May I walk you back to your room?”

And that was like a bucket of ice-cold water had been spilled down Dimitri’s back, right between his skin and his shirt. The realization of what they’d been doing hit him like a heavy blow. He absorbed the blow like he’d grown accustomed to doing, and moved to gather his armor and hastily put it back on.

Dedue took a step towards him, hand raised. “Your Highness –”

“No,” Dimitri interrupted, then instantly shrank in on himself. “I mean, no thank you. I will be fine on my own.”

Dedue relented, and Dimitri was grateful that he did not put up a fight this time. Once he’d finished gathering his things, his armor half-strewn across his body, half carried, he made his way to the door.

Dedue was waiting for him there, one hand wrapped around the handle. Something about it sent the words _caged in _flitting through Dimitri’s mind, but he shook himself over and ignored it.

As Dedue opened the door, Dimitri realized that he was being terribly ungrateful. He stopped, looked up at Dedue, mouthed the words, “Thank you,” and then made his way out. If Dedue said anything in return, he did not hear it, and soon enough the door closed after him.

Out in the cool night air, Dimitri took in a few deep breaths and wondered what to do next. He felt refreshed, reenergized – but for what purpose? Perhaps this was only meant to help him sleep at night, but he did not much enjoy that prospect. If he was truly trusting Dedue on this, then certainly this technique was something that would aid him on the battlefield as well.

Well. There was only one way to truly test that.

But what exactly had Dedue done to him, anyhow?

It irked him in ways that he didn’t understand, but that warred with the good feelings he’d taken with him out of that room. He was surprised to find that part of him truly believed he might be able to go to bed and sleep after that.

Or – he could ignore that feeling and carry on as usual, just as he was meant to do. Just as he deserved to do.

He let out a long, drawn-out sigh and made his way towards his usual deserted spot in the cathedral.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please suspend your disbelief for a bit and pretend with me that Dimitri's bedroom has a connecting bathroom. I needed to make it so for story purposes.

A report comes in of an Empire plot of an ambush to their next supply run, and Dedue volunteers to help launch the counterattack. His shin already bears a terrible bruise from the night before, purple and splotchy against his dark skin, but it does not impede his movement.

They hold a meeting in the war room to plan out the logistics, and Dedue doesn’t know if he should be surprised or not when His Highness stalks in to join them.

Much less surprising is the fact that he does not speak the entire time, just listens intently, eye flashing with an intense hatred. He carries himself a little straighter, though, and the limp from a few days ago is completely gone. Proof of progress, of success. That’s good.

He leaves the moment they finalize their departure time, so Dedue does not have time to speak with him, but if the eye test is any indication, there will be no need for concern. Besides, many of their best fighters will be taking part in this mission. If something were to go awry, Dedue is confident the damage will be greatly mitigated by their presence.

The mission, of course, goes off without a hitch. Dedue stays close to His Highness as usual, but there is no need for additional safeguarding. His Highness moves like a demon possessed, blood of his enemies staining his armor as his lance guts several soldiers in quick succession. Felix and the others would call it feral – mad, mindless – but Dedue sees a beauty in it, too. In the power fueling each and every thrust, in the perfect disregard for anyone who dares stand in his way.

His Highness storms off the moment the threat has been neutralized, and Dedue leaves cleanup to everyone else so that he can follow. He meets the professor’s eyes as he goes, and she gives him a nod of acknowledgement; he’s always appreciated that she doesn’t feel the need to communicate with too many words.

He makes no effort to catch up to His Highness for now, so long as he can keep pace. He does, however, ensure he makes sufficient noise as he walks, so that His Highness knows he is following. He receives no recognition for his actions, but he doesn’t need it.

He follows His Highness back to the cathedral, to his usual spot by the rubble. Dedue still hasn’t figured out what draws him here, of all places, nor why the pull is so strong.

Dedue walks all the way up to His Highness now, close enough that they can speak out of earshot of anyone else who might come to pray.

“Nothing changed,” His Highness says suddenly. Dedue looks at him, puzzled. “I still heard them on the battlefield. I still murdered for them, just like they asked.”

Ah, so that’s what he means. “You performed admirably,” Dedue agrees. “You had your health and your strength today.”

“I did.” His Highness turns to face him. Strands of hair are strewn across his brow, covering part of his good eye, but Dedue can see the question in it underneath. “Did you know this would happen?”

Dedue nods, the corners of his lips quirking upwards in spite of himself. “I had an informed guess.”

His Highness asks, “Then what was the point?”

It’s hard for him to grasp it, the way he’s been. Dedue prepares his words in his mind carefully before he speaks, trying to come up with the best way to make him understand.

“The point is not to keep you sharp in battle,” he starts, “but I would not allow your abilities there to be compromised. The point is to provide you with relief outside of that, precisely so that you suffer no impediments on the battlefield.”

“Impediments,” His Highness repeats, as if tasting the word on his tongue, frowning as though he’s unsure of what he finds there.

“Soreness,” Dedue lists. “Bruises. Minor injuries that, when tweaked, could provide the slimmest of openings for an enemy.” He pauses, debates, commits. “Splitting headaches.”

It’s a marked improvement, then, that His Highness doesn’t immediately tense all over, that his eye doesn’t glaze with fury, that the grip on his lance doesn’t tighten.

“I see,” he says instead, and turns away, back to facing the pile of rubble on the ground behind them, where the altar used to be. “Then we can do that again.”

Dedue quashes the hope in his chest before it escapes through his throat. “I will not disappoint, Your Highness,” he says, keeping his tone as even keel as possible.

“You’d better not,” His Highness mutters, still refusing to look at him, and Dedue can’t help but smile at that.

“To that end, I would like to discuss some matters with you before we attempt anything else,” he says. “But I think it would be better if we held these discussions, and all else besides, in a more private place.”

He’s not entirely expecting a favorable response, but he’s pleased when His Highness huffs out a somewhat exasperated, “Fine. We can speak in my quarters,” and immediately begins walking out of the cathedral with a sweep of his cloak. Dedue follows behind, mentally reviewing everything he wants to cover before they engage in any further activities.

Along the way, he makes a quick stop at the bottom of the staircase leading to the second floor dormitory rooms to discard his armor in his own room. He won’t be needing it for this, and he expects His Highness will feel somewhat more at ease without the threat or reminders of a fight. On his way back out, he grabs a small satchel of fruit that he keeps to snack on for nights when he wakes up and cannot fall back asleep right away. He’ll need these for afterwards.

Five minutes later, Dedue heads upstairs to find the door open, and His Highness waiting for him inside.

The room looks exactly like it did the last time Dedue saw it over five years ago. Bed neatly made, a siege tactics notebook sitting on the desk. The only difference is a healthy layer of dust settled over – well – pretty much everything. It looks exactly like it did those years ago, exactly like a room that’s been uninhabited ever since.

But no – staring carefully at the floor, he finds footprints, somewhat fresh. Definitely not as old as five years.

Visited, then, but not used.

When they’re both standing in the middle of the room and the door has been closed behind them, His Highness leans his lance against the wall turns to face him. “What did you want to talk about?”

Already annoyed again. Dedue will have to tread carefully.

“This might be more comfortable for you if you take a seat,” he replies, gesturing to the bed.

His Highness throws a scalding glare at the blanket, as if it might swallow him up and suffocate him. He scowls back at Dedue, so he simply raises an eyebrow. If it’s a staring competition His Highness wants, Dedue can win it every time. He used to try, when they were younger, to outlast Dedue, but their matches always ended with His Highness reluctantly conceding defeat, and bemoaning that Dedue needed to smile more. Closely followed by the petulant demand for another contest, a chance at redemption.

Sure enough, His Highness winces, squeezes his eye shut for a moment, and slinks over to the bed. Facing Dedue, he all but drops into a seating position, letting his weight crash down on the mattress with a heavy thump. Lifts his chin at Dedue defiantly, blue eye blazing with a new challenge: _There. What now_?

“Thank you,” Dedue tells him. It’s probably a bad idea to hulk over his prince when said prince is already bristling at giving up any modicum of control, so he pulls out the desk chair and seats himself facing His Highness.

He initiates with a question. “Do you remember everything you felt last night, Your Highness?”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that His Highness is blushing, just the slightest tinge of pink across those pale cheeks. “I think so,” he says, voice tinged with uncertainty, or perhaps embarrassment. “I – I don’t know how to describe it. I guess the best way would be that I was floating. Drifting, and everything else was meaningless.”

“That’s a fitting description,” Dedue agrees. “That floating sensation is what I mean when I speak of getting out of your head. In theory, if the methods work correctly, they allow you to leave the world behind for a brief period of time, so that you can be reenergized when you return.”

His Highness remains silent, looking contemplative. Dedue gives him space to absorb the words before continuing.

“It requires some level of care, afterwards. It can take time before you’re fully back in your right mind, and there is the possibility of temporary feelings of weakness. That’s why I had water and fruit for you when you were done, and waited until I was sure you were fully alert again before letting you leave.”

“That…does seem apt,” His Highness says. Dedue places that strange tone in his voice, then: guilt. He suppresses a sigh. Perhaps over time he will manage to convince His Highness that he can still be worthy of feelings like these.

Better to focus on more immediate concerns. “Do you have any questions?” he asks.

His Highness’ eye seems to track everything in the room but Dedue. His shoulders hunch slightly, and his fingers dig into this thighs. “Do I have to –” he breaks off, clears his throat. “Do I always have to be kneeling?”

Oh.

“Not always,” Dedue says. “There are several different ways to help get you out of your head. That being said, they all generally involved giving up some control.” He hears His Highness’ breath hitch. He continues, “But to make it easier, we should set up a boundary of sorts. For example, if at any point in time you want to stop whatever we’re doing, say the word Duscur.”

He receives a frown laced with disapproval. “I could just as easily command you to stop.”

Dedue shakes his head. “I realize this is unfamiliar territory to you. Sometimes, in these kinds of – _situations_, part of the satisfaction comes from saying no, yet being unable to stop. More likely, if you are not thinking clearly, you are at risk of saying something you don’t mean, and disrupting the nature of things. Duscur is a word neither of us are likely to accidentally say in these moments, therefore it would indicate a fully conscious and committed effort to halting.”

His Highness nods. “All right.”

“Good.”

He looks His Highness up and down. The bloodstains have dried on his armor, adding to the rusty iron spots already marring it. It needs a good cleaning and polish.

“If you are ready to try again tonight, I think it would be prudent to take a bath,” he suggests.

Dedue can see the physical manifestation of His Highness’ internal struggle. The way his body tenses, his teeth dig into his lower lip, threatening to draw blood. But also the desire to surrender, eye closed, the shaky releases of breath to relieve the tension.

He tries again, “I ask you to trust me, that I won’t hurt you or steer you wrong, that I will get you back to that floating space.”

Slowly, almost painstakingly, His Highness nods.

“Very well,” Dedue says, already planning out the logistics in his brain. “If it pleases you, I will prepare the bath while you get out of the armor.”

“Yes,” His Highness answers tersely, still looking down at his hands.

The temporary reprieve from each other will do him good. Dedue moves into the bathroom to prepare the hot water. He is mollified to find soap still in the room as well, no doubt years old, but still useable.

He doesn’t allow himself even the barest of glances back to His Highness in his room, floods his ears with the sounds of running water and squeaking clean skin as he washes his hands in preparation. It is only when the tub is filled with hot water and soap bubbles that he wipes his hands dry with a long-unused towel, and heads back to fetch His Highness.

He finds him standing in the middle of the room dressed only in his plainclothes, surrounded by armor on the floor, all haphazardly discarded without care. His Highness’ shoulders hunch over, and Dedue can see the muscles clenching and unclenching as he wars with himself.

Dedue says, as gently as possible, “The bath is ready, Your Highness. If you would like to go on ahead and settle in, I will wait here and give you some time.”

A sigh and a shudder, but His Highness drags a leg over the heap of breastplate, one foot and then the other. Blond hair a mop over his face, obscuring his expression as he shuffles past Dedue and into the bathroom.

Once he is in the other room, Dedue heads for the desk and opens the second drawer. The rag and polish His Highness used to clean his armor during their days studying in the Officers’ Academy is still within, like he suspected. He sets to work on rubbing over the worst of the day’s bloodstains. Some of the others are too old, have rotted there for too long to be removed without more vigorous cleaning tools, but Dedue appreciates the benefits of a simple surface cleaning regardless.

Somewhere in the middle of his progress, he hears a sloshing noise from the other room. Understandable, and expected. His Highness has been nothing if not a mass of apprehension in this whole affair.

It means he still has time to complete his work, to let His Highness get used to the water before they move on. So Dedue finishes with the armor and neatly spreads it on the floor along the far wall, its original resting place, where His Highness used to lay out and observe it whenever he pleased. Familiarity amidst strange new worlds is a never a bad thing.

When he enters the bathroom, he finds His Highness fully submerged, soap bubbles blowing into the air and popping almost immediately. Dedue stays nears the door until his head finally reemerges, prompting a huge intake of air. Dedue notes that while His Highness’ clothes are in a small pile next to the tub, he is still wearing his eyepatch.

He clears his throat to make his presence known. “Your Highness, is the temperature to your liking?”

His Highness reaches a pale hand from beneath the water, skimming it over the surface bubbles. “It’s good,” he says, a hint of wonder in his voice. “It’s been a while.”

Dedue nods and approaches. “I thought so.” He stands from the opposite end of the tub, so that His Highness can see him. “I am going to wash your hair for you.”

His Highness’ eye narrows and his upper lip curls. “Already above asking for permission, are you?”

Dedue shrugs. “If you don’t want me to, you have a word you can use.”

“Pah.”

There’s no further complaints or protests, so Dedue moves out of His Highness’ line of sight and comes up behind the head of the tub. The lighting casts his shadow over the bath, so his movements won’t come completely from out of nowhere.

He reaches out with both hands and slides his fingers into strands of matted blond, and hooks one finger under the strap of the eyepatch.

He feels the shudder vibrating through His Highness’ body, through his head to Dedue’s fingers, spreading. He holds his position, waits for the movement to cease.

“Try to relax, Your Highness,” he says. “I will not allow any harm to befall you like this.”

His Highness makes a garbled, muffled sound in response, but he does not put up more resistance. Dedue grounds his thumbs against the back of his head and begins to rub the tips of his fingers into the roots of hair near the forehead.

A few repetitions, and Dedue feels the moment His Highness gives in, the sigh escaping his lips, shoulders sagging. The way he sinks, just a bit more, into the water.

“Very good, Your Highness,” he murmurs.

Gingerly, Dedue slips away the strap from the eyepatch, lets it fall until it hangs around His Highness’ neck. Deliberating making sure not to look at his face, Dedue moves his fingers through His Highness’ hair, methodically massaging against every area of his scalp. Occasionally, he dips a hand into the bubbles, carefully pours a trickle of water down the back of His Highness’ head before smoothing the soap through his hair. A small part of him relishes the way it makes His Highness shiver. It means this is working. 

“Your Highness,” Dedue says softly, “how do you feel?”

“Mm…good.” The word sighs out of him, his voice all breath. Dedue closes his eyes, pauses, discretely takes a breath of his own to settle the sudden jump in his heartbeat before he continues. It really is working, but he must not get ahead of himself or allow himself to act in excitement.

Once Dedue is satisfied with His Highness’ hair, he massages down the scalp, eventually reaching that spot he’d found on the back of his neck that had produced such a reaction last time. Sure enough, the moment the heel of his palm settles on that spot, His Highness’ back arches and he lets out the tiniest of moans.

“Very good,” Dedue says. Spurred by his success, he adds a modicum of pressure. His Highness’ eye remains closed, but his mouth opens, though it produces no sound.

Dedue refrains from trailing his fingers down His Highness’ chest and back, though he does submerge a hand to examine the temperature of the water. Eventually, it cools enough to no longer be comfortable, though His Highness is clearly unable to recognize it himself.

Dedue leans into His Highness’ ear, keeping a careful distance while speaking clearly enough to get his attention. “Your Highness,” he says, with as much of a tone of command he has the right to use against him, “it is time to step out of the bath.”

Now, he wraps his arms around His Highness’ chest from behind, hoisting up under his arms and pulling the near dead weight into a mostly standing position. His Highness’ knees are clearly weak; he cannot hold himself alone. It’s a bit of a struggle, holding his weight up while bending to move one leg out of the tub at a time, but Dedue manages. Once he’s successfully, he reaches for the towel and wraps it around His Highness’ shoulders. From there, it’s a much simpler task to guide him back into the bedroom, and to lay him onto the bed. He grabs an extra blanket and drapes it over his resting form to keep him from getting a chill. Readjusts the eyepatch back into its normal place, still determined not to look at the injured spot.

His Highness’ good eye remains closed, his mouth parted slightly, his breathing light and even. It’s not true sleep, Dedue knows, but it might be as close as His Highness will allow himself to get, Dedue will give him all the time in the world to surface out of those floating depths.

While His Highness continues to drift, Dedue opens the topmost desk drawer to find His Highness’ cutting knife. He pulls a banana from his satchel, peels it, cuts himself a small bite to taste. Ripe enough. He begins to cut fine bite-sized pieces in preparation for when His Highness returns. That task accomplished, he moves back and forth from the bathroom to fetch a bowl of fresh water for drinking, takes a few sips for himself before refilling it so that it will be ready for His Highness. All that while, and His Highness does not stir.

He is deeper in it this time. Dedue notes that His Highness surrendered more easily this time, and the effects are more pronounced as a result. More proof that this is something he truly needs.

Eventually, His Highness stirs, and he blinks blearily. Even though his eye is open, though, it looks at Dedue without seeing, glazed over into far away. Dedue scoots the desk chair closer to the bed, bringing his things with him and depositing them on the nightstand, and watches patiently.

Slowly, light and recognition return to His Highness’ eyes, and his mouth closes, his throat bobs as he swallows.

“Welcome back, Your Highness,” Dedue says.

His Highness opens his mouth. His brow furrows a little and he closes it, then tries again. “I. Yes.” They come out as hoarse sounds.

Water, then. “I’m going to help you sit up so you can have something to drink,” Dedue tells him. His Highness nods drowsily and allows Dedue to reach under his shoulders and help him into a seated position. Dedue props up some pillows to support his back.

Dedue doesn’t let him attempt to drink the water himself. Clumsy arms move upwards, but Dedue extends an arm and gently, firmly weighs them down, maneuvering them to settle back at His Highness’ sides. He tips the water bowl to his mouth, just enough for a trickle for now. He watches His Highness’ throat work as he swallows. Threat of choking gone, Dedue allows him to drink a little faster.

He drinks through most of the water easily enough, and Dedue puts the rest aside for now, knowing he’ll need it later. He smooths His Highness’ hair out of his face, and at the touch, His Highness’ eyes close and he lifts his head as though chasing the points of contact. Recovering nicely, but not ready to take in any food yet, then.

He doesn’t want to send His Highness back into the floating space again tonight, but he also clearly needs the care. Dedue waffles momentarily on how to proceed, weighing out the pros and cons in his mind, before finally settling on keeping his hand in place. His Highness’ forehead is cool, his hair damp and soft. He is reminded, suddenly, vividly, of times when they were younger, huddled close together under a fortress of blankets, foreheads touching as they held a lantern over a book. Simpler times. Happier times.

And there can be no room for that until he helps His Highness achieve his goals.

Currently, that means easing him out of his daze. “Your Highness,” he says, soft but firm, and a blue eye opens, tracks the source of the sound after a brief delay. Better. “How are you feeling?”

Words seems to come a little easier this time, though his voice is still rough. “Better.” A pause, and, “I’m not dreaming.”

“No, Your Highness, you are not,” Dedue affirms. He gives a small smile. “You are coming back to us.”

“Who else is here?” His Highness asks slowly, mouth twisting in confusion.

Dedue shakes his head. He’s not even sure himself why he spoke that way. “You should eat,” he deflects instead, gathering pieces of banana from the nightstand into a cupped palm. With the hand that had been tangled in His Highness’ hair, he takes one bit at a time and holds it up to His Highness’ mouth.

His Highness’ head lifts forward and he opens his mouth over Dedue’s fingers. Dedue lets the piece of banana fall the brief remaining distance, watches His Highness carefully to ensure he doesn’t choke. Sure enough, he proves ready to chew on his own, holding his head up without weakness.

Dedue feeds him one piece after another, always waiting for him to finish and swallow before picking up another. His Highness looks relaxed, no signs of tension or knotted shoulders as he eats. Just an expression of serenity Dedue wishes he could always wear. Maybe one day, once he’s honored the dead and sought his revenge.

In that brief fraction of time where he’d allowed himself to shift his focus to His Highness’ face, he miscalculates feeding him the next slice, and His Highness’ lips close around his fingers. Hold him there, eyelid fluttering. The scarcest flit of tongue.

Dedue’s pulse quickens, and he can’t help but inhale sharply.

Just as quickly as it began, the moment ends. His Highness’ mouth releases Dedue’s fingers as he pulls back and chews on the banana, no coloration of his cheeks or any indication that he’d been aware of his actions. Still under the effects of the evening’s activities, not quite broken through to the surface just yet.

A few inconspicuous deep breaths, and Dedue hands him the next piece, fingers wet and sticky now. His Highness doesn’t seem to notice or care. And when there is no food left, when His Highness gazes at him expectantly, as if waiting for more, Dedue wonders if he may have been remiss in his planning.

He gives him the small volume of water he’d kept aside for this very purpose, which His Highness drinks eagerly now. “Do you think you are back yet, Your Highness?” Dedue asks him.

Consideration passes over his eye, and that’s enough for Dedue even without the answer he receives with it. “I believe so.”

“That is good. Am I able to leave you to handle the rest of your affairs?”

Something strange passes over His Highness’ face that Dedue can’t place. A moment of hesitation, and then he replies, “Yes, that is fine. You are free to go.”

A voice that sounds so much like five years ago, almost earnest, attempted switch to propriety.

Dedue stands and resituates the chair back by the desk, grabs his satchel. He turns towards His Highness, still propped up in bed, and bows. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he says, and exits the room, closing the door carefully after him.

He’s not sure what it is, exactly, that he’s thanking him for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Dimitri dances with so much denial.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter introspective chapter this time. Once we enter the new year I'll be able to update more than once a week, though, so there's that?

Three days later, and Dimitri was still thinking about it.

Wrapped in blankets, warmth in spite of water droplets cooling on his skin. A large hand over his head, so much strength contained within the gentlest of touches. Small slices of banana, hand fed into his mouth one bit at a time. Lips grazing fingers. Lingering burning sensations at points of contact.

Three days later, and Dimitri’s mind was fracturing, torn asunder in several different directions. On one hand, Dedue had succeeded, two days in a row, in taking him to that floating place where nothing else mattered, where he could leave the world behind and sink into nothingness, and nothing could bring him back save for Dedue speaking to him, calling him by his would-be title.

Which led him to the other hand: he was no longer a prince. He was dead to most of Fódlan, throne be damned. The dead did not care for his nobility, or lack thereof. All they cared about was their revenge, their chance at finally unlatching from this world, free to rest in peace at last.

_Why do you make us wait? _Glenn hissed, more snakelike than he’d ever been among the living. _Why do you make us suffer?_

In the floating space, the voices no longer existed. They, like everything else, ceased to be, and Dimitri was free.

He didn’t deserve that, though. This reality was where he belonged, and the dead always returned to him to make sure he didn’t forget it.

Three days later, and his headaches had returned, building so subtly at first he hadn’t been cognizant enough to notice. Reminding him that he was selfish to seek relief – though he knew that already, after all, monsters like him bore greed which knew no bounds – and that in the end, such distractions were only temporary, could never replace the heart and soul of who he was.

A murderer on a mission. A mission that he would either fulfill, or die trying.

“It’s not my fault,” he insisted exasperatingly. “They – those senseless fools insist on waiting, with their ridiculous ideals of diplomacy.”

_Diplomacy got us nowhere,_ his father reminded him harshly. _The only exchange for our blood is their own._

“I know, I know,” he insisted, releasing an angry sigh. “I’ll get there. I promise.”

His mother, eyes so full of scorn in an otherwise neutral expression, said, _Then why are you running the other way? _

Three days ago, Dimitri chose wrong. But the simple acknowledgement of that fact was not enough to chase away the feelings that had come with it. Dedue had claimed, with that quiet vehemence of his, that even one as lowly as Dimitri was worthy of moments of peace. Certainly, when he was in those clouds, with those gentle touches to ground him, he felt like he was. The fog of war would never be so considerate.

And yet, he had a sinking suspicion he would keep choosing wrong, because those were the mistakes typical of monsters.

The absence of that piece of peace gnawed at his core, as though striking something hollow inside. He wanted desperately to fill it. Craved to reach that point.

If there was nothing he could do to reach the Empire at this time, surely there was no harm in seeking selfish pleasures?

_You disappoint us._

His head seared, and Dimitri was filled with sudden purpose, with a rush of energy and momentum that could carry him all the way to the gates of Enbarr. He began his brisk walk down to the main gates of the monastery, Areadbhar in hand, armor donned as usual, always ready to seek the next victims in his quest for revenge.

Cruelly, it was Rodrigue who approached him on horseback as he was leaving, returning from his morning ride or a brief scouting mission or whatever it was that the man was up to. Dimitri cursed his forever rotten timing.

“Your Highness,” he started, bringing his steed in sideways to block Dimitri’s path, because of course he strove to be the biggest thorn in Dimitri’s side these days, “what brings you out here?”

Dimitri’s eyes narrowed. “You’re in my way, Rodrigue,” he said. “Move.”

But Rodrigue held his ground, releasing a little sigh that sent a streak of fury through Dimitri’s chest. “I’m afraid I will not,” he responded. “I know for a fact that there are no missions or supply runs that would coincide with your departure.”

Dimitri bared his teeth. “I do what I damn well please,” he seethed.

Even so, that cursed man merely looked down upon him with pity and concern in his eyes. “I know you’re tired of waiting, Your Highness,” he said, and blast his overuse of that damned title, “but we should be receiving word from House Riegan any day now. All I ask is that you remain patient for just a bit longer.”

He didn’t understand. A man like him could never understand.

“You call yourself my father’s closest friend, but you don’t hear his pleas,” Dimitri growled. “You don’t share in his suffering, lingering every single day that goes by while that wretch still draws breath. You’ve abandoned them, just like everyone else.”

Rodrigue’s face fell, worry lines creasing the already existing wrinkles in his brow. “Your Highness, you know that’s not true. I bear their burdens just as you do. I still have a promise to Lambert I must fulfill.”

“You’ve done nothing to honor my father,” Dimitri seethed. His body burned with hatred, pain, rejection. He wanted to stab something, anything. But Rodrigue’s gaze held him in place.

“I am working tirelessly, every single day I am here, honoring my promise to your father,” Rodrigue said evenly. “I am here, am I not? Have I not provided counsel to the best of my ability, to open a path for you to Enbarr?”

That was true, wasn’t it. “You are making me wait,” he said instead, voice still rippling with anger. He trembled with it.

“Patience now so that we will have astounding success later,” Rodrigue reasoned. If Dimitri focused hard enough, he could hear the whisper of a plea in his tone. “Please, Your Highness, walk back inside with me.”

Accompanying him was the last thing Dimitri wanted to do right then, but when he tried to resist, he found his thoughts addled, no proper rejection able to escape his lips. He grunted a begrudging assent and followed as Rodrigue gracefully dismounted and began to walk his mount towards the stables.

Their walk began in silence, which was bearable at best, but of course the damned fool had to go and break it.

“Say, Your Highness,” Rodrigue began.

“What?” Dimitri snapped, looking only at the ground ahead of them as they walked.

“You know that Gilbert and I have been heading all major correspondences within the Kingdom and the Alliance both.”

Another lecture incoming that Dimitri cared nothing for. Useless. “And what of it?”

“We’re both doing all of this for you, so that you may achieve your goals.”

“No, you’re not,” Dimitri corrected, irrationally irritated. “You don’t care about that woman. All you care about is shoving me back in a cage, on a throne. And _that man_ is only doing the same out of remorse for abandoning us, all those years ago. Thinks that doing so will be sufficient atonement for his guilty conscience.” Or perhaps it was merited. He wasn’t actually sure anymore.

“That’s not true, Your Highness,” Rodrigue admonished, voice strained, and Dimitri knew it wasn’t the whole of it, but it was easier to focus on that, easier to let the anger in than to consider anything else. “We are carrying on the Blaiddyd legacy to honor the dead, and all those who fell protecting it. Protecting you.”

That was a dangerous line of thoughts to follow. In all these years, by some unspoken agreement, they’d never mentioned Glenn’s name aloud together. Now, though, Dimitri was felt reckless. He could say anything he wanted – it wasn’t as if Rodrigue would ever take him seriously, these days. He could say anything he wanted, and damn the repercussions.

“Glenn doesn’t want your pity,” Dimitri said, his voice low. “He doesn’t want your protection. He died for nothing and he knows it. The only way to –”

Rodrigue’s face crumpled, his eyes glazed over, and his shoulders shook as he said, voice cracking, “Do not speak another word of him.” Shaky breaths, followed by a plea: “Please.”

The rush of satisfaction was liberating. Dimitri grinned. “The truth hurt Ingrid too, when I told her how she died. The two of you are the same, the way you cling to your foolish ideals of knighthood, clutching them close to your heart to protect yourselves from the harsh climate of reality.” A cruel streak of laughter blurted out of him. “What a pitiful farce.”

Rodrigue rubbed an arm over his face before he straightened. He was taller than Dimitri, when he drew himself up to full height. He was less muscled, less imposing, however, than Dedue. No, Rodrigue was just another sad old man clinging to the remains of a life that could never be.

A father who had outlived his son, who tried to replace him with another. But Dimitri couldn’t be that other anymore. He couldn’t slot himself in with Rodrigue’s ideals any longer. The dead came to Dimitri in different ways, demanded his time and efforts in ways only he could accomplish.

“Your Highness,” Rodrigue began, and Dimitri noted the slight tremor to his voice even as he pushed out his chest and jutted his chin, an image of defiance. Defiance that deserved to be cut down, maimed such that it could no longer oppose him.

Glenn said, softly in his ear, _He is a senile old fool. I trust only you to avenge me now._

Rodrigue’s voice cut across his son’s, louder, clearer. “We may see things differently, but I would ask that we treat each other’s views with resp–”

“Do not pretend you harbor any respect towards what I am doing,” Dimitri interrupted, fueled by a sudden anger, one that commanded his fingers to clench around his lance, to dig the blunt end into the dirt. “You may follow me now, but that is only because you are chained to memories of the past. And since you are so devoted to the idea of serving me, you would do well to remember that you listen to what I say now. Not the other way around.”

Rodrigue sighed heavily, dark hair falling across his face as he bowed his head. “And I will follow you till death if I must, Your Highness,” he said, and it sounded like a confessional pulled from between clenched teeth.

More irksome was the way he used Dimitri’s former title, the way he said it with such care and reverence still, even though he’d made it clear he did not approve of Dimitri’s methods. Even though that title had long been stripped from him. Ever since that bitch Cornelia –

“I will be meeting with the professor and Gilbert this afternoon to discuss our latest correspondences with the Alliance,” Rodrigue said, standing tall once more, the mask of politics and negotiations and duty carefully back in place. “If you have interest in hearing the latest updates, yours would be a welcome attendance in the war room. With any luck, we will have received favorable news, and we can plan our march into Enbarr.”

Rodrigue gave him one last, long look – sorrow pooling in his eyes, and curse his foolish sentimentality, couldn’t he see that Dimitri had no tolerance for it – and turned away without waiting for a response, continuing to guide his horse to the stables, who followed obediently, blissfully unaware that anything had gone wrong.

Dimitri wasn’t aware of when they had stopped walking, but shaking his legs out, he realized they must have been rooted in place for some time. Ah, well. It seemed the only way to keep Rodrigue in check was to cut him where it hurt. Dimitri held plenty of pain inside of him for that. Hurting was all he knew how to do anymore, all a monster – not a prince – like him should do.

Three days ago, he’d briefly given that all up.

One of the few things Dimitri still appreciated about this world was how Dedue understood when his presence was undesired. Since that time, Dedue had scarcely approached him, and if he had breached the imaginary barrier Dimitri kept in place, extending a great distance from his person, all it took was one swift glare to make Dedue nod and silently retreat. Dimitri had harbored no desire to converse with him, or to even stand in his presence, since three days ago. Truthfully, that sentiment was shared for any other individual at Garreg Mach, but Dedue was the only one who would unquestioningly accept it.

Perhaps that was why it was such a struggle to keep thoughts of three days ago out of his mind. Dedue had accepted him for the monster he was, and still swore to serve him unwaveringly. Dedue understood that the wishes of the dead must be heeded. Not once did he try to dissuade Dimitri of that fact; instead, he had made suggestions for these – activities – all for the purpose of ensuring Dimitri would be strong enough to accomplish their task.

_The path of blood is yours to walk,_ his stepmother said, cold and authoritative. Even now, he could not remember her smile. Only those distant eyes. _Only the bloodiest path will do._

His father added, _You must not yield to anyone._

“I know that,” Dimitri sighed. There was no soldier on the battlefield he would ever yield to. No one was strong enough to stop him. He knew that to be true. That’s what Felix had miscalculated during their sparring match, after all. He hadn’t fought with true intention to kill, and that would have been his downfall.

Empire soldiers, on the other hand, fought in vain, cowering the moment Dimitri appeared in their field of view. He was the monster of Faerghus. He was the demon who would tear them limb from limb until their vocal chords were ripped to shreds and they could scream no longer. The only generals who would have possibly come close to matching him were already dead; Dimitri had seen to that. Now, it was just a matter of carving through bodies, leaving as many piles of corpses behind as he could possibly manage, a trail all the way to the Imperial palace so that Edelgard could die at the height of regret.

And he would respect his father’s words. He would accomplish all this and more, and surrender to no one in the process.

A small voice in the back of his head said, _Not even Dedue?_

Dimitri started for a moment. It was a new voice, yet familiar. A remnant fragment of the wistful, earnest child he used to be, before fate had twisted, crueler plans for him. A voice he’d placed in a box, and sat on the lid, using all his powerful weight to keep it pinned down.

Somehow, ever since Dedue had returned, he’d allowed himself to slip. Shifted, allowed the lid to open, just a crack.

And that had given way to a flood of desires he had no right to seek. There was no path to redemption for a beast like him. He had long since passed the point of no return. He did not deserve moments of sweetness, of kindness.

But Dedue had said this would help him achieve his goals.

Was it so wrong to crave something that, in the end, would help him appease the fallen?

Dimitri sifted through all the reasons he should request to speak with Dedue, and arrange another session, despite his better judgement. He remembered how he had been able to shake off the grime and rust, how his limbs had loosened, allowing him to move better on the battlefield. Quicker, deadlier. How his headaches had receded, permitting him to see with striking clarity the vitals of the soldiers who would soon meet their bloody end from his lance. 

If these activities could help him add to the pile of corpses on his way to Enbarr, was it not worth the trouble?

Dimitri had long foregone any personal aspirations. So long as he could build this legitimate case for why he should seek out Dedue again, then wouldn’t they approve of it?

_There is no room to be selfish,_ said his father.

Dimitri was a selfish bastard; this he knew to be the ultimate truth. But he was also a murderer, and the violence he carried with him would leave countless Empire corpses in his wake. As long as her corpse was one of them, nothing else mattered.

If Dimitri could push the beneficial reasons for engaging with Dedue like they’d done three days ago to the forefront – if he could be resolute in the fact that he wasn’t doing it to escape, to get to that floating place, to taste Dedue’s fingers against his tongue, to bask in touches that were sweet and gentle and good – then it wasn’t truly selfish.

He just had to convince himself this was true.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to get this one out before the new year, so here we are. It's a bit of a slow, introspective Dedue type of chapter, but he's in a bad headspace and it's finally time to start planting the seeds for that to change. I thought the timing was fitting, anyways.

Ashe has really done his plant research in the past five years, Dedue realizes the more they work together in the greenhouse. He knows which seeds to plant next to each other, which roots need to be cut and contained before they spread too far through the soil, which plants need an abundance of water and which need to remain dry. All this, Dedue allows him the satisfaction of explaining, rosy-cheeked and pleased. There is no need to tell him that Dedue remembers all of this from five years ago. Ashe deserves his moment of pride.

“Impressive,” Dedue says when Ashe finishes, and he means it. Ashe has grown much from the days of attending the Officers’ Academy, from the overzealous, sometimes a little misguided, yet sincere youth he once was. His company was welcome before, but Dedue enjoys it even more now.

“I’m so glad you think so,” Ashe gushes, eyes bright even as he pulls his hands out of the soil, stained with dirt and muck.

Their companionship is easy, made even easier by the fact that they both enjoy gardening so much, and that they’re both good at it. Dedue remembers the time Annette accidentally spilled an entire jug of water on one of his Duscur blooms, forcing him to watch it wilt and wither away before he replaced the soil and planted new seeds. She had apologized profusely, absolutely mortified, and baked him two entire cakes to make up for it. One chocolate, one vanilla. (“I only realized once I started that I didn’t know which kind you liked, so I made both,” she’d said sheepishly.) It didn’t matter, though. Dedue had carefully kept both of them, eating from them little by little over the span of a month despite the instinct to share them. He hadn’t wanted to disappoint Annette.

In the end, he hadn’t minded. He’d slowly grown accustomed to being in his classmates’ presence, especially at the professor’s and His Highness’ insistences, and found that most people really and truly did not care about his race.

If His Highness were ever to make good on his promise and repair the broken connections between Faerghus and Duscur, this was surely the best starting point.

Now, while Dedue appreciates the continued camaraderie, he has his doubts. His Highness’ promises to the dead come first. It is only if he survives those burdens that his promise to Dedue can perhaps be upheld.

Dedue doesn’t hold it against him, though. Some promises are always more difficult to keep than others.

But he is here, and he is helping with the war efforts as best he can. As long as Dedue can say he’s done everything possible to ensure His Highness’ victory, he can have no regrets.

“What do you think about this whole war, anyway?” Ashe asks him suddenly.

Dedue looks up from the particularly stubborn root he’s attempting to reshape in the soil, watches Ashe’s serious face carefully. “How do you mean?” he responds.

Ashe looks down at the flowers in front of him, blooming reds and pale blues and yellows and whites. “Well, Edelgard is trying to conquer all of Fódlan, right?” he says. “And the Kingdom and Alliance are both fractured into factions. We’re outnumbered. Is what we’re doing really going to work? Is it even worth it?”

Dedue returns his own gaze to that root again and digs his hands into the soil. “If you do not put your utmost belief behind a cause, can you hope to succeed?” he counters.

Ashe is silent for a moment. Voice small, he answers, “No, I guess not.”

Undeterred, Dedue continues. “The professor knows what she is doing. You trust her strategic insight, do you not?”

A sigh. “I do.”

Time for a change in tactics. “Answer me this instead. Why are you here? Why are you fighting?”

“I want to end the war,” Ashe says. “I want to end the pointless suffering. What Edelgard is doing…there’s just no way I can condone it. I know she has something against the church, and I don’t understand it.” His voice, growing stronger as he speaks, goes soft again. “Lord Lonato had a problem with the church too. Maybe they were the same somehow. But I refuse to believe this path of hers was the best course. There had to have been a way with less bloodshed.”

With a particularly forceful grunt, Dedue finally manages to get the roots in place like he wants. “You seem resolute in your belief after all, then,” he notes.

A small sound of surprise escapes Ashe, but then he nods. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I just wish we didn’t have to go to war at all.”

That seems to conflict with all of the ideals Ashe worships to begin with. “What do you wish to accomplish as a knight, then?” he asks.

Ashe raises his arm to wipe the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. “I want to help people in all sorts of ways,” he answers. “Protect villages from bandits. Bring supplies to towns in need. Rescue folk that get lost in their travels.” He pauses. “I want to be a knight who keeps the peace, who advocates for friendly relations with foreign countries. Wouldn’t it be great if the people of Duscur and Faerghus could finally get along?”

Dedue nods but says nothing, a sudden lump caught in his throat. Knowing there’s another person in this world who might be able to uphold his wish – he wants to enjoy this moment.

Ashe continues, “And not just Duscur. Sreng, too. And then east, to Almyra, and Brigid and Dagda. Just, everywhere. I know it sounds like a foolish, childish dream, but what’s the point of fighting with each other when we could just get along?”

Dedue smiles wistfully. “You are wiser than most people, I think,” he says. “In my experience, most people with power are the ones who tend to be lacking in that department. They squander treaties for the advancement of their own personal goals, with lack of regard for the common folk who would be affected.”

“That’s exactly it!” Ashe exclaims, nodding enthusiastically. Steady and sure. “I mean, for sure there are some nobles who aren’t like that, but they’re a small minority in comparison. They don’t –” He cuts himself off, face reddening. “Sorry, I got away from your question.”

“That’s quite all right,” Dedue says, permitting himself a small, amused smile. “It is good to see you passionate about a cause you believe in. You’ve given me your answer.”

He does everything with gusto, even the uncertainty that covers his expression now. Ashe asks, timid, “And was my answer sufficient?”

“More than.” Dedue continues his work, though Ashe has paused. There is still plenty of gardening left to do this morning. “You have allowed me a new sliver of hope for the future with your ideals. I thank you for that.”

He’s busy looking at his plants, so he doesn’t see the way Ashe’s face must undoubtedly light up when he gushes, “Oh, is this about Duscur?” and launches into an entire brigade of propositions and opinions on Faerghus-Duscur relations, including what Dedue can only refer to as conspiracy theories – except if Ashe’s hunches are correct, they would prove the innocence of his people.

When Dedue had been bedridden and in recovery, too weak to even expend energy on speaking for extended periods, Mara would tell him stories to pass the time. She told him of the countless Duscurian soldiers she had treated over the years, dating even long before the tragedy of Duscur. She assured him that if he followed her instructions, he would make a full recovery. That she’d seen much worse.

She told him stories of so many conflicts. She spoke matter-of-factly, which Dedue appreciated, not giving in to emotion here or there, just telling him her truths. And so he learned of the hardships his people had endured, mostly at the hands of the Faerghans, and he was too weak to insist that under His Highness’ rule, things would change.

He knew it would, though. His sacrifice would be what allowed that future to come to pass. Assuming His Highness survived the war. Dedue needed to return to him.

When that particular brand of anguish festered and bubbled, Mara taught him to relax. She showed him how easy it was to forget for a while, to be soothed, to use new tools to fuel his recovery. Sometimes he took it well, other times he didn’t.

Nevertheless, Mara had treated him with care, and Dedue learned. He learned so many things about his people that had long been forgotten over the past four and more years of living in the Kingdom. It saddened him, that he was losing his culture. Thankfully, his time in recovery allowed him to re-learn it, to embrace it once more.

Dedue had lost his connection to the people of Duscur since His Highness saved him, pulled him from the brink. But he still loved these lands and skies, and everything they contained. To be able to bask in them again served as a sturdy reminder that he still fought for this beautiful place. Most of it might have been ravaged by war, by the Faerghans, but there was still beauty left worth fighting for, worth preserving.

At His Highness’ side, he vowed to do just that.

Mara had smiled at him, a placating one, one that did not mask her personal opinions at all, though she never attempted to argue him. But that was all right. She had every right to be skeptical. The only way to prove her wrong would be to actually follow through.

So when Dedue finally left, he made a promise to Mara, in particular, saved his final goodbye for her.

“The next time you see me here,” he told her, “it will be to bring peace.”

“Then you’d better not die in the meantime,” she said.

“I’ll do my best.”

It was the most he could give her, and part of him lamented his pitiful gratitude for the extreme care and kindness she’d shown him. But if he had to die like that again, he would do it in a heartbeat. He would endure all this and more, again and again and again.

That didn’t stop him from hoping that if he could at least give Mara this, speak these words such that there was the slightest chance of bringing them into existence, maybe he could truly show his gratitude.

Even now that he’s returned to the monastery and rejoined the war efforts, Dedue knows there are a great many ways things can go. And while keeping His Highness safe and alive is his top priority, he hopes that Ashe will be able to come out of the other side of the war healthy as well. He makes a mental note to keep a closer eye on Ashe during supply runs and skirmishes, where His Highness doesn’t involve himself.

Ashe’s passionate rants end up passing the rest of the time they spend in the greenhouse, and he continues even after their work is done and they carry their harvests to the kitchens to pass off to Annette. Once there, Ashe volunteers to stay behind and help stock the pantry, so Dedue thanks him for his time and help and heads towards the cathedral.

He has spent the last week checking in, only to be rejected. He doesn’t mind; all signs point to His Highness being in good physical health. He did join them for a simple skirmish in the nearby, ruined village a few days ago, and Dedue witnessed his overwhelming might once more. So, there has been no cause for concern.

He enters the cathedral, quietly slips past those who’ve gathered at the pews to pray, and makes his way over to the pile of rubble by the altar’s past location, over to that hulking blue cloak – black and grey with soot and dirt.

He doesn’t make any attempts to hide his footsteps as he approaches, making his presence known. He’s expecting a quick glare over the shoulder, an immediate dismissal as per usual these days, but it doesn’t come. So Dedue steps into His Highness’ periphery, stands next to him on his left, still a guarded distance away, but there.

Without turning to face him, Dedue observes out of the corner of his eye. His Highness’ eye is closed and his head is bowed, almost as if in prayer. But his shoulders are hunched over again, signs of tension clear. No battlefield aches, then, but soreness from the burdens of stress that he carries. Based on his latest observations these past couple of weeks, he surmises that the voices of the dead are growing impatient again.

Even so, he does not speak and risk overstepping his boundaries. His Highness is already granting him his presence here; he must not want for too much.

Time passes in easy silence, and Dedue turns his gaze away, to the piles of rubble once more. He still remembers what the altar used to look like. He was not one for the Fódlan religion, did not worship their goddess, but that did not blind him to the splendor of this place of worship. He had appreciated such magnificence, when he studied here. Beauty appears in many forms; it need not be solely a descriptor for nature.

It can also describe talent. His Highness’ movements on the battlefield are savage, leaving bloodstains and trails in their wake, but his prowess is unmatched. There is a beauty there, too, in that viciousness. The destruction he leaves in his wake is breathtaking.

Dedue wonders, sometimes, if clearing the rubble would help the restoration efforts and improve morale. But given His Highness’ insistence on taking up residence in this very spot, maybe that’s precisely why they shouldn’t.

“Dedue.”

The voice is low, almost dangerous. But Dedue knows better.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

His Highness says, voice dripping with bitterness, “They are getting loud again.”

Expected, as time goes on. “Would you like to meet with me again to silence them for a bit?” he asks, keeping his voice down as well. He knows full well that no one would even think of coming close enough to get within earshot, but he imagines the show of solidarity might help ease His Highness into the idea again, given his usual reluctance.

His Highness twists his neck just a fraction, so that clear blue eye is flashing directly at him. Dedue peers into its depth and finds a question in return.

“Yes. But I want to add to the terms.”

That is much less expected. Promising, though. “What would those additions entail?” Dedue asks, alert, ready to file all the information in his mind to ensure he can serve His Highness well.

“Tomorrow night,” His Highness says, firm. “My room.”

Dedue nods. That is easy enough.

But he continues, defiant like a challenge, “Something different this time.”

That is…also doable. The day’s notice will provide ample opportunity to come up with a new, effective strategy.

“As my lord commands,” Dedue replies with a slight inclination of his head. “These are all very reasonable requests. I would also recommend wearing loose and comfortable clothing, and discarding your arm–”

“I’m not finished yet,” His Highness cuts in, his eye narrowing. Dedue continues to meet his gaze head on, to show that he is listening very intently.

“Tomorrow night, you must call me by my name.”

Dedue freezes. It’s as if someone has dumped a bucket filled with ice-cold water over his head, washing down his spine, numbing every part of him, from his limbs to his heart to his brain, because for a moment he can’t think, can’t even breathe –

Air sucks into his lungs as he manages to draw a deep breath. He holds it inside of him for a moment, then releases it slowly through his nostrils.

“You know I cannot do that, Your Highness,” Dedue says carefully. “Not as things are.”

“I know damn well that you are perfectly capable of speech,” His Highness snaps rather venomously. “You used to do it all the time.”

“That was before I learned the Faerghan customs,” Dedue reminds him, while his pulse drums relentlessly between his ears, threatening to drown out the rest of the world, to deafen him for good.

“Bullshit,” His Highness seethes, lips curled and teeth bared. Angry words pour out of him, like so much pent-up frustration, a dam breaking and releasing them into the world. “You claim you’re doing these – these things to help get me out of my head. But do not forget that you serve me, and you must abide by my demands as well. If you want me to truly leave the world behind, then I must relinquish all responsibilities – and that includes my goddess-forsaken title. I want no reminder of it while we– I just want to be me.”

Dedue’s heart plummets until it’s a heavy stone sitting in the pit of his stomach. It’s not an unreasonable request, is the thing. It’s so perfectly thought-out that Dedue aches, because it’s just so unfair.

Yet Dedue has always been unwavering in his service to His Highness. He died for him without nary a second guess, and yet he hesitates in this? Disappointment fills his veins like stinging poison.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he says, so softly he inwardly rebukes himself for being so awfully childish. His Highness deserves so much better than this.

An ugly twist of lips in response, no doubt sensing his reluctance. Dedue feels nothing but shame, hot and overbearing.

Somehow, he does not provoke His Highness into a fresh rage. Something in his expression shifts, morphing into a satisfied smirk, and he turns his gaze back to the stone and dust, a twinkle of finality and victory in his eye.

“Good,” he says derisively, head held high in disdain, every inch the cruel, commanding leader he should be. The king he was always too soft to be, and never wanted to. “Now leave me be until then.”

Maybe that’s what calms the writhing creature in Dedue’s heart, that flash of insight, that acceptance of who His Highness is and who he is not. True, he is a man driven by revenge, hungry for blood – but somewhere deep down, he is also still that boy with beautiful ideals for peace. And maybe, Dedue thinks, what he’s doing for His Highness will help the two features reconcile with each other, and leave an even stronger person in their wake.

His Highness wants something different, Dedue muses to himself as he slowly walks away, leaving the rubble and the cathedral behind. He has preparations to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More frequent updates from here on out! Happy new year everyone, all the best for 2020.


	9. Chapter 9

The knock on Dimitri’s bedroom door past sundown startled him so fiercely, he almost fell out of his chair. He wiped his sweaty palms against his breeches and stood abruptly, staring at the door as though it might swing open at him. It didn’t, and Dimitri fought off the instinct to simply ignore it and wait until he could hear fading footsteps before reemerging from his chambers.

He reminded himself that Dedue had given him a word, an out to be immediately obeyed should he ever speak it, and moved to unlock the door and let him in.

Dedue ducked his head as he entered the room, and Dimitri’s chest tightened as he took in the sight. Dedue was dressed in plain brown garb, a darker brown patch sewn over one knee. Around his neck was his gorgeous patterned teal scarf. His expression was serene but serious. It made Dimitri’s skin itch, made him want to dart past him and abandon this whole affair.

He remained rooted to the spot instead, hovering by the door with his arms crossed over his chest even after he’d closed the door and Dedue had moved to the center of the room. If he gave in to the urge to flee, at least he’d have an easy escape.

“How are you feeling, Your Highness?” Dedue asked.

Dimitri bristled, his skin crawling. “I gave you my terms,” he growled.

But Dedue did not budge. “We have not started yet, so I am still free to call you how I please,” he said.

Dimitri shook his head, heaving a deep breath. All he could do was smirk, being witness to Dedue’s display of arrogance. How far they’d come, for Dedue to treat him thus. His mind supplied the words _full circle_.

“If you are ready to begin, however,” Dedue said, and Dimitri’s breath hitched, “then I’d ask you to please step over here.”

With leaden limbs, Dimitri gingerly lifted one foot off the carpet, leaned forward and forced himself to take one step, then the next. Everything inside of him screamed not to forsake his better judgement, but he had grown weary, and his head ached something awful. He craved to be permitted this temporary lapse.

Inevitably, he stood before Dedue, feeling small beneath his broad shoulders, a stalwart tower shield against a heavy onslaught. A chill slithered down his neck, down his back, and he shivered.

Dedue placed a hand on his shoulder, replacing the chill with a flare of heat and making him shudder anew. The palm was weighty against him, pressing him down yet not. Trepidation swirled together with his reflex to punch, to fight his way out of this. But it warred with the promise of something he couldn’t quite place, something that could ground him.

“All right, Y–” Dedue started, fumbled. Dimitri felt a twinge of satisfaction, that his new rule had forced him to stammer to a halt. But then he recovered, and his voice was low, honey smooth when he said: “Dimitri.”

And Dimitri could have never prepared for the effect that would have on him. Hearing his name spoken on those lips was a piece of a broken mirror, a fragment of an innocent childhood now stained with blood and heartbreak. Now that lost shard of glass had been found again in this room, in the warmth spreading at his shoulder through the rest of his body.

He looked up into Dedue’s clear green eyes and saw them filled with so much tenderness, he had no choice but to squeeze his eye shut. It made him want to melt into the floor. It made him want to leap at Dedue, hold him tightly and never let go. It made him dare to dream of a long-forgotten future, one that wasn’t wreathed in destruction and carnage.

“Y-Yes,” he breathed shakily.

“Very good.” Dimitri nearly flinched as what he recognized to be the tip of a thumb ghosted over his forehead, smoothing out the creases there. A repetition of the motion, more concrete yet still a light brush of skin against his. Dimitri’s shoulders sagged and the hand still there closed around him, the slightest push.

He wondered what Dedue was going to do differently, this time. Something heavy hung in the atmosphere that he hadn’t recalled being there during their previous sessions together, but he was unable to tell if that was a legitimate change, or if his overactive brain was simply imagining things.

Dedue’s voice glided into focus. “I am going to ask you to do something for me now. Open your eye.”

Dimitri obeyed slowly, his eyelid fluttering open and blinking until the spots cleared. In front of him, still not releasing the grip on his shoulder, Dedue crouched down, holding the Duscur scarf in his free hand.

“Take this,” Dedue said. “Dimitri,” he added, chasing the name with his tongue, as though tasting how it felt on his lips. The tiniest of thrills coursed through Dimitri’s body, and he wondered distantly how Dedue was faring with it.

He took the scarf into both of his hands, running his fingers across the soft, familiar fabric. Vibrant colors reminiscent of the Duscur blooms Dedue took such care in growing in the greenhouse. He sifted through the patterns until he reached the area near the edge that he’d clutched that night. The holes that should have been there…weren’t.

“Did – did you?” he asked stupidly.

Dedue nodded. “I cleaned and mended it. It is good as new.”

Dimitri was staggered by the wave of guilt that flooded through him as the full realization of what he’d done to that scarf that night took hold of him. He had broken a treasured possession of Dedue’s, clawed through it when he should have cherished and safeguarded it through the night.

This time, when he brought the scarf to his head, closed his eye and tilted his cheek into the indulgent silkiness and warmth, he did not dig his nails through the fabric. He ran it slowly across his face, breathing in deep through his nose, letting the floral scent of Dedue’s cleaning product permeate through him.

Both of Dedue’s hands joined his, navigating the layers and folds of the scarf, and Dimitri suddenly became aware that his eye was open again, and he could not see.

A slight tug of the material, and Dimitri could feel the telltale motions at the back of his head of a knot being tied. Something dark and ugly and frightened curled beneath his ribs; he gritted his teeth together to keep from lashing out.

And then those hands were on his shoulders again, running soothing motions across, fingertips dancing over his neck, his collarbone, his deltoids. He exhaled through his teeth; it came out like a hiss. This was fine. He’d asked for different. He alone held the power to call a halt to this farce at any moment. This was fine.

“I am glad you think so,” Dedue said, and Dimitri jolted. Had he really spoken all of that out loud? The embarrassment of asking was too great, so he settled for the barest nod instead.

“Good,” Dedue said. “Now, I want you to stay right here, and don’t move. I have some things I must to do, and I will call on you if I need you.”

A simple enough instruction. He could do that. Could he do this?

He unclenched his jaw, opened and closed his mouth before he finally answered, “All right.”

Dedue added, “I also want you to remain silent the entire time. If you cannot do that, you have that word. Can you do that for me?”

Dimitri was about to give a verbal response before his brain caught up with the situation. Soft blackness all around him, he nodded.

“Very good,” Dedue said warmly, and Dimitri could hear the smile in his voice. It made him want to share in that joy with him, envelop them both in darkness, warmed only by the heat of their bodies, comforted by smooth fabric and skin.

Alas, it was a fantasy for one man only as he stood, still in the middle of his room, unable to see with the scarf covering half of his face. A corner of it folded over the ridge of his nose, almost a tickle. Still, he could breathe, and he could remain on his feet.

Shuffling noises began to his right; he instinctively twisted to see what the commotion was, but came up empty; his eyes were still covered, and Dedue had ordered him not to move. He resumed his position before risking Dedue noticing and chastising him for it, and listened.

The sounds jumbled together, chaotic at first, and the knot in Dimitri’s chest tightened. Anything could be happening, and there was no way to know if it was safe or not. Anything could be happening, and he would be helpless to stop it.

No. Dedue intended to take care of him. Aimed to help his mind reach that floating place again, even if Dimitri didn’t understand how standing blindfolded would accomplish that. Trusting Dedue with his life on the battlefield had always come so easily. This should be no different.

Dimitri listened attentively, and soon the noises grew apart, distinct, until he could parse each individual sound to a manifestation. He could clearly make out Dedue’s movements, and their direction, as he padded around the room. Heard the rumbling of his desk drawer opening; the twist, the soft pop of the lid of a jar being pried open; the shaking out of a rag.

A new smell wafted towards him. He breathed in deep through his nose to capture it, and was reminded of oil, or ointment. The smell grew stronger, footsteps louder. Closer.

Warmth, then cold. A hand enclosing around his own, opening him palm upwards in front of him. A glass cylinder pressed into it. He closed his fingers around it instinctively.

“Hold this for me,” Dedue said. “Uh-uh,” he chided, as Dimitri opened his mouth to question him. “All you are to do right now is behave.”

Behave. Dimitri wanted to comply. He wanted to be good, to be praised for how good he was, to be doted upon for it, even. The only path that could even possibly hope to lead him to that place was obedience.

He held on to the jar until a weight pressed down on it from above. His muscles twitched as he countered the pressure upwards, keeping it at an even height. Heard a hum of approval, and his cheeks flushed, though they were partially concealed by the scarf. Felt the sweep of damp cloth that raised the hairs on his arm.

From farther away now, mass settling on the floor. Subdued metallic clangs. The faintest of squeaks.

For a moment, it was all nonsense. Then he remembered the scent of cleaning oil, and he realized that Dedue was polishing his armor.

He had done it a week ago, Dimitri remembered, or perhaps longer; time was muddy these days, and his awareness of it was consumed in the gnawing dread that too much was passing. It was always too much, would always be too much, until he’d had her head.

Oil and flowers in the air. Focused, meticulous scrubbing, just little repetitions. Fabric caressing his cheek.

Dimitri remembered regaining his sense of self, of awareness. One of the first things he’d noticed was the armor laid out neatly in the corner, just like Dedue used to leave it after his usual maintenance routine. They used to clean their armor together; they’d sit cross-legged in Dimitri’s room, taking turns dipping their rags in the jar of oil, the room filled with sleek sounds and pungent scents. Dedue would insist on doing most of the work himself, and Dimitri would put up only a minor resistance, eventually conceding extra pieces to Dedue, though he at least would keep some for himself. Some things weren’t worth issuing commands over. Besides, watching Dedue work at something he clearly poured his heart and soul into was mesmerizing.

If Dedue was taking up his old ways again, that was a sign of good fortune. If they were able to return to how things were several years back, to how they used to be, then couldn’t they revert even further?

His hands sagged momentarily until he dimly realized the rag was sweeping into the jar of oil once more. He tightened his hold, fully cognizant of his muscles working to maintain their position. Relaxed again when there was no longer a push against him.

“Very good, Dimitri.” Voice sweeter than anything he could ever taste. Something fluttered in his chest, syncing with his heart, a marching pace. Moving towards something dizzying, inevitable, something that was always meant to be. Something that was just _right_.

His hands flexed around air. A breeze floated around him, fresh and delicate. Tall blades of grass swaying with it; he was one with them now. He rocked back and forth with it, gave in to the pull, let it take him and guide him across a blue sky filled with all the promises he always meant to keep.

To a place he could share with Dedue, where they could be free.

And then he was bathed in warmth.

Heat radiated all around him, enveloping him, bleeding into him. Fingers interlaced with soft fabric, beside him, beneath him. A solid mass against his back, sturdy and cozy and warm. A warm weight against his chest, grounding him there. He smiled to himself once he knew it to be an arm. Dedue’s arm.

His vision, which had been hazy shades of grey, gradually began to sharpen. He vaguely, belatedly realized that his eye had been open for a while now, and that the scarf covering it was gone.

Reality came back to him in a sequence of fragments sluggishly making their way back together, and he was eventually able to piece together his current state. Half-sitting, half-lying down in bed, back resting against Dedue’s chest. Dedue’s legs swung over the edge of the bed, torso slightly twisted to accommodate him. The arm draped over him holding an apple, the scarf spread out underneath. Free hand holding a small cutting knife. Slow, careful motions; long peels of red descending onto the fabric.

Dedue was just – so much, all around him. It was easier to concentrate on just one thing, the precision of the cuts, sliding towards his thumb but never piercing skin, the peel falling away gracefully it. Precise cuts, effortlessly slicing away the bad bits, the browns of bruises and rot. Leaving behind something good, something worth having.

A small piece raised to his lips. Opening to accept. Tasting just a hint of sweetness on his tongue. Pure, unmarred, undamaged. Everything Dedue represented to him.

It seemed like a lifetime ago. Fire, devastation, blood, destruction. Bodies all around. Darkness in every corner, every direction, every step.

One boy lying amongst the dead. Alive.

A chance to sever his ties to the decay that threatened to suffocate him. Something good. Something worth protecting.

An outstretched hand. Meeting eyes at first uncertain, then metamorphosing into a shining beacon. The sweetest salvation he could ever hope for.

_You’re everything._

_Oh, Dimitri. _A wistful sigh.

Such sorrow was too great an ache to bear, threatening to split his heart in two. He could not remain idle, not when he had a chance to make things right, after holding back for so long. He leaned into the warmth at his back, tilted his neck, twisted and reached until he found Dedue’s lips and met them with his own.

The softest of touches. Tastes of apple, a dribble of juice. Plush comfort, kissing him back, _kissing him back_, moving against him. Blanketed by warmth, not a burn, but a balm.

He sighed against Dedue’s mouth. Discomfort didn’t exist, no matter how contorted his position. There was nothing else in the world but the sheer bliss of their connection, their everything. It was better than anything he’d ever dreamed.

It surrounded him until it didn’t, until there was a sudden chill over his lips and his body was manhandled by sturdy hands, lifted upright until there was nothing left of the contact at his back. Lowered him again to blankets, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t right.

He opened his mouth to protest and all that came out was a pitiful mewling noise.

Dedue made a shushing sound, and then even the hands were gone, too. “You’re not thinking straight,” he said.

Haze and confusion and panic thrashed within him, and he trembled. “But –” It was like a string had been pulled taught inside his chest. “I want –”

Dedue said, gentle but firm, almost a command, “You don’t want this, Your Highness.”

Dimitri’s insides turned to ice, and the string was snapped in two. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Dedue was supposed to care for him, to adore him, to treat him like an equal. Wasn’t that what he had been doing here? Was that not what he wanted?

Awareness flushed through him, the brutal reality of it all crashing over him like boulders in a landslide, leaving only devastation in its wake.

That was Dimitri’s fate, his curse. In this kill or be killed world, it was he who must be the harbinger of destruction. Otherwise, this – this regret, this sorrow – all of the burdens placed on his shoulders would overwhelm him, sink him further into a pit of bottomless depth.

His good eye prickled and stung. The other beat with a phantom pain. He let out a bitter chuckle. Ghosts were the only company he deserved to keep, in the end.

“You’re right,” Dimitri said finally, once he’d swallowed down the choking sensation in his throat. “I wasn’t thinking.” He refused to look at anything other than the ceiling.

“I suspected as much,” Dedue said, and Dimitri felt hollow. He’d kissed him back. He would stake his life on it.

Unless – unless that was the product of his imagination, brought on by the fogginess of the floating space.

Dimitri’s throat tightened as he blinked hard at the ceiling. “You – you should go,” he said tersely, trying and failing to keep his voice even keel.

He heard the sounds of Dedue moving through the room as if from a great distance, dulled by the roar of his pulse between his ears. The creaking of the door as it opened.

“I left you the rest of the apple on the nightstand,” Dedue told him. “Have a good night, Your Highness.”

Dimitri couldn’t bring himself to answer. The door closed, and Dedue was gone.

He rolled over, buried his face in the pillow, and screamed.

He didn’t care if his muffled agony was still loud enough for Felix and Sylvain to hear through the walls from their rooms. Their eardrums could bleed out, for all he cared. None of that nonsense mattered to him.

Once he had sufficiently exhausted his lungs, he pushed himself upright and clambered out of bed. Something teal caught his eye, and it moved as if by magnetic pull, to stare at the scarf Dedue had left on the nightstand, bite-sized chunks of apple neatly piled on top of it.

For a moment, everything was still, like the calm before a storm.

_They will never want what you do_, whispered the dead.

And then the rage flooded through him again.

He snatched up the scarf with all the apple still wrapped inside of it, shoved open his bedroom window, and launched the items into the darkness with all the force the Blaiddyd crest could offer him.

He gave in to the voices, gave in to their fury, their frustration, their hatred. He let it fuel him all night long, let the tension and bloodlust build and build and build until there was nothing left for him to do but seek out death, locate a means to paint the monastery grounds red.

_You need to finish what you started_, said Glenn.

Dimitri knew what he had to do.

~o~

Like those crazed beasts flocked to sources of crest magic, he hunted down Felix walking through the courtyard at the first light of dawn, tunnel vision on him and no one else. Whether he was even with anyone never even crossed his mind. None of it mattered.

“You,” he growled, pointing the tip of his lance just inches from Felix’s face. “Fight me.”

Felix tilted his chin in disgust, the bastard. “We already fought, boar,” he said, voice rich with disdain. A small scab on his cheek, almost fully healed, but not quite just yet. Dimitri yearned to reopen the wound. “You lost.”

Insane. “I did no such thing. I would have stuck my lance right through your throat if –”

“You lost the moment you used your bare hands to stop my sword,” Felix seethed, planting his feet in the ground. There were jumbled voices all around them, but Dimitri couldn’t hear them. It felt as though all the blood in his body had rushed to his head. “If those had been real weapons, you’d have lost your arms. And then you’d have been _nothing_.” He spat out the last word, suddenly looking very angry. Good. Dimitri needed a hatred to match his own. “I’m one of your strongest fighters. If you truly intend to kill me, then I’ll do what no one else has the guts to do and put you down like we should have done seven years ago.”

Someone called out, “Felix, no!” but they were inconsequential. This was a proper challenge, and Dimitri hungered for blood, a longing so strong he could barely think.

Felix’s hand closed on the hilt of his sword at his side, and Dimitri charged.

Metal clashed as they came to blows, a flurry of frenzied movement. Dimitri let the power of the Blaiddyd crest overflow, and Felix matched him with his own crest of Fraldarius. Sparks flew as their blades met with vicious intensity, drowning out shouts and screams all around them, over and over and over.

It was not enough. It would never be enough, not until he suffocated in a hundred thousand corpses –

Searing impact blasted into his back with such force he was flown from his feet, landing face first in the grass and dirt. Before he could push himself to his feet, weight piled on top of him, slamming him back down, crushing him to the ground. Multiple sets of arms and legs, restraining him, reining him in.

Face pressed sideways against the dirt, he saw Rodrigue, the remnant light of an aura spell shimmering in the air from his fingertips, and Dimitri saw red.

“You –”

He thrashed and wailed, but even with his crest fueling him, they were just too many. He was utterly powerless, reduced to no better than a corpse of his own.

“I am so sorry, Your Highness, but you’ve left us no choice.” Another voice, the only one he could hear with any clarity. Gilbert, though Dimitri could not see him. Sounding older than he ever had, and profoundly weary.

“Bind him and lock him up in a cell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh...yeah. Things got a little messy there. Next chapter will be posted in a few days though, so there's that?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry to leave you off on such a cliffhanger last time. Here are way too many words and a hell of a lot of emotional introspection to make up for it. Oh, and a prison visit, of course.

Dedue hears the news from Mercedes. He’d been taking another turn in the greenhouse when everything happened, and she only came by once she was able to confirm the matter was taken care of.

He’s grateful, this time, that Ashe is not with him, and that the greenhouse is empty save for himself and Mercedes, so he can close his eyes, let his shoulders sag, and breathe out a sigh as deep as the pit sinking to the bottom of his stomach. His chest aches fiercely before the stark proof of his failure.

He hadn’t been good enough. He hadn’t been able to help His Highness after all.

“There’s going to be a rotation for guard duty,” Mercedes explains, and Dedue doesn’t know why she sounds so full of regret as well. “But none of us will be on it. No one Dimitri knows by name, at least for the first few days. Then Gilbert and Lord Rodrigue will reevaluate and see from there.” Then she adds, “I’m so sorry, Dedue.”

Dedue blinks down at her, perplexed. “What do you have to be sorry for?” he asks.

Mercedes sighs heavily. “I was just thinking how terrible it must be for you,” she says. “You risked your life for Dimitri, went through a terrible ordeal to recover and find him again, and now this happens.”

He shakes his head firmly. “I am not the one you should worry about,” he says. “If anything, it is my fault.”

It is Mercedes’ turn to be bewildered. “But you’ve done nothing wrong,” she protests.

“I did enough,” Dedue says; it tastes like poison on his tongue, numbing and bitter. “Or rather, I was insufficient in my attempts to help him.”

Mercedes shakes her head, her large blue eyes shining, tender smile back in place. “You can’t blame yourself for his demons,” she says, and she sounds so sincere, Dedue almost believes her. A part of him desperately wants to. “Some things are beyond the help of just one person. I don’t think anyone could ever hold a candle to what you’ve done for Dimitri.”

Dedue breathes in and out very carefully. He wants to sit down, but he’s not sure he should. “That is very generous of you to say.”

Mercedes shakes her head with a sad smile. “I’m just speaking the truth. You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who disagrees with me.”

Her words cut deeper than he’s willing to admit, but maybe that’s just the culmination of things today. He lowers himself down into a crouch, faces his beautiful Duscur blooms, thriving in the dry soil. “Regardless, you are very kind.”

“As are you,” Mercedes beams at him. A beat, and then her expression grows somber again. “I will keep praying to the Duscur gods for you,” she says. “Please, do try to put yourself first for a little while. Think of what you want – for yourself, not Dimitri or anyone else.”

Dedue understands the words perfectly, but when he tries to wrap his mind around executing them, he draws a blank. Many things he wanted had always lined up with His Highness’ goals. Like the reconciliation of Duscur. The most direct path to such an outcome lay with His Highness becoming king and making good on his promise. Until then, the Kingdom and Duscur would always be at odds, and his homeland would remain in ruins.

But that wasn’t all there was to it, was it? Dedue remembers talking to Ashe right here in the greenhouse, not so many days ago, about his lofty, knightly goals. How Ashe had made himself a truly viable option should his original plan fail. It hasn’t failed yet, but Dedue admits with these new developments, things are looking grim. But against all odds, that failure will not mark the end of his dream like he originally believed.

The pursuit of that goal, with Ashe at his side, would prove a worthy endeavor. But, given the choice – thinking about himself, his desires, his visions of the future – he would like to be by His Highness’ side when it happens.

Last night, though laden with mishaps, had confirmed it for him. He self-consciously touches his fingers to his lips, where Dimitri had kissed him. His lips had been dry and cracked, yet somehow tender. But such saccharine sweetness was only artificial, an accidental product of Dedue’s failure to bring His Highness to the place he desired.

Dedue wants redemption, not just for His Highness, but for himself as well. He wants to make things right, to do so by carving a path to his chosen future.

He doesn’t know how he can do this.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” Dedue straightens into a standing position once more as Mercedes opens the satchel hanging over her shoulder, resting at her waist. From it he glimpses a cloth of a familiar shade of teal.

Mercedes pulls out his scarf and holds it out in her hands for him.

Dedue tries to blink the surprise away. “Where did you get this?” he quivers, unable to keep the incredulousness out of his voice. She is bringing out many things in him, with that otherworldly knack of hers.

“I found it outside, in the gardens behind our rooms,” she tells him, and something within him plummets. Mercedes’ expression turns into guilt, for some reason. “It was sticky and stained with something. I was going to clean it first, but I’m not familiar with fabrics from Duscur, and I didn’t want to damage it by mistake.”

Throat suddenly thick, Dedue can only swallow and nod as he takes the scarf from her with trembling hands. “You have my thanks,” he says quietly, his voice oddly hoarse.

She smiles at him, full of compassion. “It’s one of the few reminders you have of home,” she reasons. “It would be such a shame to lose it.”

While he’d been in recovery, his people had protected him from the outside world, granted him a haven where Kingdom soldiers could not reach. Most of his country had been ravaged by war, but they had carefully nurtured a safe space where they could live peacefully, where it could almost be considered a home once more. They’d certainly treated it as such. Over time, Dedue had come to realize it as well.

His village may have been gone, but remnants of the land and his people remained. And as long as there were even but a few people to keep that culture alive, there was still hope. That is a form of family, too, he thinks as he sifts the fabric through his fingers. He wants to return to them, to plant flowers with Mara, to extend the reach of their beautiful land until it was vibrant and prosperous once more.

He’ll never see his parents or sister again, but he can still have his family. He can still have Mara and the others.

He wants to unite that family with the new family he’d found for himself. Wants to walk through fields of Duscur blooms with Dimitri at his side, wants to see the youthful smile on his face once more. Together in one place; home like he hasn’t had in nine long years.

He looks back up from the scarf at Mercedes, who simply waits patiently, unhindered by his time in his thoughts, unassuming and wiser than anyone else he knows.

“You’ve done me a great service, and given me much to think about,” he tells her.

He knows it’s a measly display of gratitude, but the way she beams back at him is full proof that she has never been one to need more than that, and her appreciation for his words is just as great.

“I’m so glad I could help,” she says, and Dedue doesn’t have a single shred of doubt, down to his very soul, that she’s just saying that for the sake of being nice. “Anyways, I didn’t want to keep you from your work, so I’ll be going now. But if there’s anything you ever want to talk about, you know you can come to me, right?”

He nods in response and receives an even broader smile in return. “Thank you. I just may do that sometime.” He’s surprised to find that he means it, the revelation hitting him like a beam of sunlight risen from beneath the mountains, dazzling and blinding all at once.

“May the Duscur gods watch over you and care for you,” Mercedes says, and Dedue can’t help but smile back at her.

“You as well.”

Then she turns and goes, leaving Dedue holding his precious scarf, and all the reminders of past, present, and future his heart can bear.

~o~

The next few days pass by somewhat eventfully, somewhat not. On one hand, there are no fiascos in the prison cell where they’re keeping His Highness locked up for everyone’s safety. (Dedue knows this because Ashe excels at sneaking, and has volunteered himself to do reconnaissance for him. Dedue hadn’t planned on asking him for the favor, but Ashe willingly offered himself and Dedue was not going to squander the opportunity.) On the other, they receive strange reports of unexpected Alliance behavior that’s about to make their march into Adrestia a lot more difficult.

Dedue attends all the war council meetings, seldom weighing in, but listening attentively, making mental notes of all the important information. He watches carefully as Gilbert fidgets when they finally broach the topic of whether or not to bring His Highness along with them.

Lord Fraldarius bickers with him, and the whole affair eventually turns into a heated debate, too many voices vying to be heard as the room erupts.

“Regretting your actions so quickly, old man?” Felix’s scorn is evident in the way he glares at Lord Fraldarius. “You finally made the decision to take the boar down, and you couldn’t bear the guilt. Your lack of resolve is pitiful.”

“I did what I had to in the present situation, for the safety of everyone involved,” Lord Fraldarius insists.

“How can we be sure he doesn’t act up again?” Gilbert counters.

“If we’re fighting under the Kingdom’s banner, shouldn’t we be following a leader, though?” Annette questions (startling the entire room, but none more so than her own father).

The professor eventually breaks it up, reminding them that there is still time to decide while they carry out the rest of their preparations.

“Besides,” she says, “he’s been fine the past few days.” She looks straight at Dedue, meets his gaze head on, unflinching. “Why don’t you take a turn guarding the cell tonight, and let us know how it goes.”

Dedue stares at her, searching her face for any strange signs, but she is resolute, impassive.

“Very well,” he agrees.

She gives him a curt nod, something like silent understanding passing between their eyes, and brings the meeting back to order for other areas of business.

~o~

Dedue dines with Ashe that evening. Given his assignment for the night, Dedue naps late that afternoon, so the sun has almost completely set and most of the soldiers have already eaten by the time they convene to sit down with their meals. They munch on the remains of the crayfish skewers, a little on the overdone side but still edible. The green salad boasts much better flavoring.

It’s also an opportunity for Dedue to explain his plan for the night.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Ashe asks uncertainly between mouthfuls of fish.

Dedue nods. “I am.”

Ashe’s eyebrows knit together. “But what if he hurts you?”

Dedue shrugs. “You’ll get the signal, and you can gather some soldiers to take care of things.” Ashe still doesn’t look convinced, so he adds, “At worst, I am injured, and we know that there’s nothing to be done. At best, we come out with a valuable fighter back on our side and improve morale for everyone.”

Ashe crinkles his nose. “It’s strange to hear you talk about His Highness like that,” he confesses. “You’re best friends. Doesn’t this worry you?”

He takes a breath, holds, releases slowly. _Best friends_. Those aren’t words Dedue has ever used to describe his relationship with His Highness; fealty, dependability – those had always been more appropriate. ‘Best friends’ is not an apt description, yet they have a nice ring to them. They feel like words Dedue could wrap his tongue around, words that if he could finally speak freely, would be welcomed with open arms.

He thinks that maybe this is part of what Mercedes meant.

“It’s not quite like that,” Dedue says finally. “But you are right; I do worry. However, that is not a luxury I can afford to waste time on. The professor wants vital information about him.”

Ashe nods his agreement. “That’s why she asked you to be the one watching over him tonight.” He frowns, freckles dotting his face and making him look young again, when he’s apprehensive. “But I don’t know if –”

“It’s the most efficient means of finding out,” Dedue reasons. “In times of war, we have to put our fears aside and make logical, informed decisions. If the worst should happen, I will deal with it when the time comes. For now, I can only focus on what must be done.”

He knows it all sounds like a direct contradiction to what Mercedes asked of him just this morning. But he wants to do things this way, is the thing. His methodology for the night is already an unorthodox one, after all.

But he wants to see His Highness on his own terms. Whether or not His Highness accepts those terms – that’s what remains to be seen.

“Hmm.” Ashe sighs around a bite of salad. “Well, if you’re sure –”

“I am.”

“– then I’ll support you,” he finishes. He draws himself up in his seat, dedicated. “I’ll be there when you need,” he promises.

Dedue wipes around his mouth with his napkin. “Thank you,” he says honestly. “You are a good friend, Ashe.”

Ashe flashes him a brilliant smile. “So are you,” he replies. “I’ll always try to help you as best I can, even if your plans don’t make much sense to me. You know that, right?”

“I do.” Dedue nods. Reminds himself that there are other avenues to the future his wishes for, and that he is allowed to rely on others. “Even after the war?”

“Especially after the war.” Ashe is firm, resolute. “There’s going to be a lot of work to be done, especially to mend relations between the Kingdom and Duscur.”

It’s confirmation of a new path to tread, to believe in. Dedue is mildly surprised to find how much he looks forward to when that time comes.

He just has to get through this first, and hopefully bring His Highness through it with him.

They finish up and help clean what’s left in the mess hall before making their way to the underground prison cells. Dedue has not spent much time down here, but Ashe knows the halls well, having spent valuable time sneaking around when they were students. Dedue follows, carefully observing, making a mental map of the lefts and rights and staircases. Ashe deftly guides them through what’s reminiscent of a maze-like pattern of dark and cavernous stone lit only by torches along the walls, until they reach a locked door.

Dedue knocks on the door. “Replacement guard has arrived,” he says, keeping his voice low. He’s not sure if His Highness will be able to hear him just yet.

A click of the latch from the other side, and the door opens. A fully armed soldier whose name Dedue does not know steps aside to let them in.

The hall is dark, lit only near the doorway by one torch. At the very end, almost shrouded completely in darkness, stands a single barred cell. Within, Dedue can just make out His Highness’ outline, seated and hunched over, curled in on himself. Unmoving.

The guard reaches into a pocket beneath her equipment and pulls out a ring with two keys. She turns her back to the cell, blocking the view.

“This one is for the door, and this one is for the cell,” she explains, tapping the appropriate keys respectively. Dedue nods and extends his palm. She places the keyring there and he closes his fist around them. “Keep the door locked at all times until the next change of guard comes.”

“Understood,” Dedue says. “Thank you.”

“I don’t think he’ll do anything, but always good to be careful.” The guard sighs, the wash of relief visible through the eyeholes of her helmet. “Well, good luck!” And with that, she walks through the door, and Dedue closes it behind her. The clanking of movement in armor slowly fades.

A quick glance into the cell confirms that His Highness is still motionless, paying them no heed. Dedue sets to work on unbuckling the belts and straps of his armor, and Ashe helps him set everything neatly on the floor against the far wall from the prison bars. They don’t talk; the only sounds echoing in the room are the soft pangs of metal as pieces inadvertently come together.

Once that’s taken care of, he glances over at Ashe, a wordless question passing through them. Ashe nods, and so they move towards the cell.

His Highness does not move as they approach. He doesn’t even flinch when Dedue takes the key and unlocks the cell door. What he does do, however, is lift his head when Dedue steps inside, the shadows cast over his face making it impossible to discern his expression. Dedue can barely make out the outlines of dark manacles around his wrists, shackled together, and the same for his ankles.

Dedue reaches blindly behind himself, feels Ashe’s hand close over his own. Ashe takes the keys, closes the cell door behind him, and locks it.

“Still sure?” Ashe whispers, one last time.

Dedue’s throat tightens with anticipation; he merely nods. His eyes are still straining to adjust to the dim lighting; there’s the tiniest of thrills in acknowledging the vast possibilities presented to him now that he is locked in the cell with His Highness. The odds of this going very well or very poorly.

“Good luck,” Ashe says softly. Dedue does not turn around to watch him go, only listens to the soft sound of footsteps, the heavy creaking of the door shutting, and the click as the door to the hallway, to freedom, is locked behind him as well.

As his eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, he begins to make out details in His Highness’ face. One eye squints as it pierces him with its gaze; his lips part just a fraction.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” Dedue says gently.

He receives a grim chuckle in return. “This brings back memories.”

Dedue swallows. The last time he’d done this, he’d allowed His Highness to escape the dungeons of Fhirdiad, while he remained behind to face execution. That night from five years ago burns clear as day in the back of his mind. Dedue will never forget the way His Highness had looked up at him, so similar to how he does now, dried blood across the mangled eye, dazzling hope in the other. Hair shorter than now, but just as filthy and unkempt, growing out in odd places. No armor, no weapons. He’d given His Highness the patch for the bad eye, along with some equipment for the escape and journey.

He recalls with unequivocal clarity the final look His Highness had given him, overflowing with a maelstrom of emotions. So many words left unsaid, so much passing through them in one final, highly charged moment. Things they knew would never again see the light of day, which bore no chance for reconciliation.

Back then, Dedue had known that to be true with absolute certainty. When he’d awoken in Mara’s physician bed in Duscur, heavily bandaged and his entire body a single vivid point of pain, he had almost dared believe that such a future might still exist after all.

Seeing His Highness now, seeing him conquered by and succumbing to his demons… Maybe Mercedes was right after all, that he can’t do much more to help him. And maybe that was okay, because there is still much Dedue can accomplish in this world.

Still, he knows he would regret it forever if he didn’t try.

“Unfortunately, the door is barred behind me,” Dedue says. “Neither of us are getting out this time.”

His Highness’ mouth twists into something ugly. “You’d better not have fought them too.”

Dedue’s shoulders sag in relief. Still himself. “I did no such thing, and had no such intentions,” he says. “I came here tonight of my own volition.”

“Would you, though?”

“Hm?”

His Highness bows his head slightly, but that one blue eye still glints up at him, the barest reflection of torchlight. Narrowed in a way that makes the hairs on the backs of Dedue’s arms prickle.

“Would have fought them if I asked?”

Dedue freezes, sucks in a breath of air. Days ago, just like the rest of the past nine years, the answer would have come so easily, without the shadow of a doubt. Now, that answer bubbles up in his throat and sticks there, won’t reach his lips. He flexes his wrists, opens and closes his fingers where they’ve curled into fists at his side.

For nine years, he’s served His Highness. Devoted himself to fulfilling all his goals and wishes. After all, he’d given Dedue a purpose again, saved him from the carnage. His life was His Highness’.

But that debt had been repaid, five years ago. Dedue remembers their last words to each other, with almost painful lucidity. 

_Please don’t do this. I…I don’t want you to die._

_Four years ago I was as good as dead. These past four years have been the truest gift I could have ever been given. You gave me my life; now, I give it back to you in full._

_You’ve done so much for me. I will cherish it all. But – you don’t deserve this fate. I wish I could have done better by you to make you see that._

_I could not have asked for a better life –_

Dedue squeezes his stinging eyes shut, wills the memory to wisp away into the shadows of their confinement. The man he knew back then welcomed a hearty disagreement. Had Dedue refused to senselessly murder, there would have been a veritable chance at persuading him to adopt a different view. But it didn’t matter back then, because His Highness was not like that. He placed all of his trust in His Highness that his decisions, his orders were always legitimate and just.

Felix, like others before him, had pestered him on the topic in the past. None of that mattered. Dedue was steadfast in his beliefs, and no amount of scorn or discrimination could shake him.

Now, shrouded in blackness, he’s not so sure if His Highness is capable of such choices anymore. And given what Mercedes and Ashe have been telling him, he’s realizing he doesn’t have to accept that.

To speak those words into existence, to make them a finality… Dedue feels frayed at the edges, ready to shake the entire foundations of his world apart.

Is he ready?

“No.”

A hissing intake of breath, and the prison is completely silent. Dedue doesn’t dare open his eyes. If this honesty is to destroy everything he once had, he will accept it. His chest aches, but he has to believe such pains will heal in time, otherwise his life has no meaning.

After what seems like an eternity, His Highness speaks.

“You finally grew a spine.”

Dedue winces at the slight, which sounds much more like something Felix would say than His Highness, but he supposes it’s only fair.

Also much, much less aggressive than he was expecting.

He opens his eyes and finds the faintest trace of light in His Highness’ eye, the corners of his mouth just barely quirked upwards. 

“I should have gotten myself detained like this sooner, then,” His Highness quips, and Dedue feels his perception of reality tilt dangerously.

“Your Highness?” he asks weakly. This is not at all how he thought things would go, and suddenly his plans for the night have all been torn askew.

His Highness makes a noise of disgust. “Ugh, do not call me that here. Have you not noticed they’ve stripped me of everything?”

Dedue elects to ignore that first comment and shakes his head regarding the second. “It is only temporary,” he says. He is still loyal to him, so he adds, “I was placed on guard duty tonight to assess the situation, to determine if it would be appropriate to let you out in the morning.”

A bitter chuckle, a dangerous glint in his eye. His Highness’ upper lip curls as he says, “The night is still young, Dedue. I might attack you. The great murderous monster of Garreg Mach, and now he’ll come for you too.”

Dedue’s brain instantly snaps back to His Highness’ previous statements, and puzzle pieces slot themselves together into something he can definitely work with.

“That’s very bold of you,” he begins carefully, “to assume you can overpower me in unarmed combat, Dimitri.”

That name – perpetually locked in a box carefully maintained in the back of his mind – saying it is like slipping into a warm bath at the end of a long, busy day. It had been no different the last time they saw each other, when Dedue blindfolded him and cleaned his armor and took care of him in ways that were visibly soothing, maybe even healing. Saying Dimitri’s name like that had felt like a mistake on the surface, but deep down there was an intense longing to say it again, and again. Dedue had tried to suppress that itch as best he could, to focus on simply performing, but in those moments, he had been transported back nine years, to a time when they’d both lost almost everything, but clung to each other for salvation.

_Who are you?_

_Dimitri. _A hand extended. _And you?_

_Dedue. _Hands clasped together, light skin against dark. Flames and bodies and smoke, and the rusted metallic smells suffocating them. His home destroyed, his family gone, d—

Fingers trembling violently against his. _ I thought there was no one left. I thought – _Breaking off, choked up, tears streaming down.

Grip tightening, pulling in for a strong embrace. _You saved me. Thank you. I – I can never hope to repay you this._

Sobs wracking through the air. Both of them now. No longer alone. _Your survival – that you live – that is payment enough. _

The moment the soldiers had found them, they pointed their weapons at Dedue, shouted obscenities until Dimitri himself raised his hands, powerful and commanding despite the tear-and-soot tracks that stained his cheeks, and ordered them to never touch or harm him. That he was to be protected at all costs.

Dedue hadn’t known that Dimitri was the crown prince at the time. He realized that he was someone of great importance when the soldiers instantly obeyed.

Later, in a relatively undamaged carriage: _Dimitri. Are you a lord?_

A twisted smile, eyes staring blankly ahead. _That’s one way of putting it. I suppose I am – I am – _A pause, a shuddering breath, eyes squeezed shut. Voice resuming, barely even a whisper. _I will be the next king._

The decision made right then and there, lighting a fire so bright and bold within his gut that he couldn’t possibly hope to ever be more certain of anything for the rest of his life.

_Please let me stay by your side._

_But Dedue, would you truly wish to stay with me, of all people? My life will be filled with conflict now. You couldn’t possibly live a happy life – _

_It would bring me great happiness to remain with you. Unless you do not wish it._

_No – I mean yes, I do wish it. That would make me very happy as well._

_Thank you, Dimitri._

That name, the person it belonged to, and all it represented – it all melded together into a single focus, became Dedue’s entire world. His deliverance. But in order to dutifully serve, some things had to be repressed.

Now, Dedue’s not sure if this is better. It’s been so long since he’s spared so many thoughts for himself, but Mercedes insisted he do so, and that’s something His Highness used to tell him all the time, though he paid it little mind.

He doesn’t entirely know what he wants, here, but he is certain of a few very important things: One, he wants to see his people redeemed. Two, the best chance at achieving this sits on the floor in front of him, and though there are other avenues he could pursue, he would be remiss if he did not at least try for this one. Three, he _wants_ to help. This is the person who accepted him wholeheartedly, who took the time to know him when few others would even spare him a passing glance – and most of those were usually filled with distrust. This is someone he cares about more strongly than any other living person in this world.

If he can help Dimitri with this, then maybe Dedue will be able to help himself next.

Dedue watches as something glosses over Dimitri’s eye, listens to the sucking breath he withdraws. His instincts scream at him that he is right, that this is exactly what he needs to do, where he needs to be.

So he raises his arms in front of his chest, keeping his palms out, fingers slightly bent for now. He doesn’t expect to require any use for fists.

Dimitri’s lips curl into a sneer, and his chains clang together as he lunges forward and low, straight for Dedue’s legs.

He’s not able to get a proper grip around the legs due to his bindings, but in this enclosed space, it’s near impossible for Dedue to fully dodge out of the way. Solid metal thuds against the side of one leg as he lowers into a crouch, pushing sideways against the stone side wall. In retaliation, Dedue goes straight for Dimitri’s torso.

Their bodies collide with all the force of the weight Dedue throws behind him, and they tumble to the cold stone ground. Dimitri thrashes immediately, rearing his knees up and then kicking with both legs chained together, and he manages to catch Dedue right in the chest. Dedue grunts as the cuffs slam against him with much more force than he’d anticipated – the Blaiddyd crest must be kicking in – and rolls.

He doesn’t get very far before his shoulder hits stone again, but that’s all right. As Dimitri swings over to him, Dedue uses the wall and the ground together to push off and meet him halfway, this time gaining the height advantage and allowing him to land on top. Dimitri reacts, but not quite quickly enough; Dedue is able to get solid pressure on Dimitri’s legs, pinning them to the ground and preventing him from flailing at the knees.

Dimitri’s able to keep his arms bent inwards against his chest, and he punches upwards with them, trying to throw Dedue off balance. Dedue manages to block in time this time, but the momentum tilts him just enough that Dimitri can reverse their positions and swing around to gain the upper hand.

Dimitri is strong, and with the power of the Blaiddyd crest at his side, he threatens to completely neutralize any of Dedue’s advances. Dedue’s body struggles while his mind races to conjure up a plan for a counterattack, but his thought process skids to a halt when he sees the look on Dimitri’s face.

Dimitri’s eye is glassy, almost vacant, his breathing heavy. Dedue sees it clearly then, his lack of desire to fight. Like he’s expecting what Dedue will do next, and already welcoming it.

So Dedue wriggles from underneath him and flips them over, and Dimitri goes, surrenders almost immediately. When Dedue pins him to the ground, Dimitri gasps like all the air’s escaping him, and all the tension in his body seems to bleed away, seems to sink deeper into the stone.

Dedue holds that position for a minute, but nothing else happens. He lifts himself from Dimitri’s prone form and swings his arm and leg over until he’s reached a seated position by Dimitri’s head, back propped against the back wall of the cell. Through it all, Dimitri merely stares blankly up at the stone ceiling, unreactive.

“Dimitri?” he murmurs.

A slow blink, a shaky sigh, but a response nonetheless.

Dedue tries again. “I’m going to move you a bit. Is that okay? Nod your head yes if it’s okay.”

Dimitri closes his eye and nods.

“Good. Thank you.” Very carefully, Dedue slides his fingers through strands of knotted hair under Dimitri’s head, tilts upwards at a shallow angle, then uses one hand to push from between Dimitri’s shoulder blades. He shuffles from his position on the ground until they are properly lined up, then deposits Dimitri’s head into his lap. Dimitri shifts slightly, but then relaxes around Dedue.

“Are you comfortable, Dimitri?” Dedue asks. There’s just the slightest rush in speaking his name this way. Now that he’s spent more time thinking about it, part of him wonders if there really isn’t any harm in addressing him that way more often. Dimitri’s wanted this for years, after all, ever since Dedue stopped. Sitting like this, the thin chill of the dungeon air buffeted by the warmth emanating from their bodies so close together, he almost forgets what possessed him to stop in the first place.

Dimitri breathes, “Yes.”

“You’ve been fighting for a long time,” Dedue says quietly, running his fingers through Dimitri’s hair. Rubbing soothing circular motions against his temples. Brushing the backs of his knuckles across his cheek. It’s as if his inhibitions have fled to a far-off land; he is compelled to move and speak freely, openly, and there is a bittersweet ache taking residence between his ribs that blossoms as he does. “You’ve endured so much pain, shouldered burdens too heavy for any one man to carry. And yet, you are still here. There is no one I admire more for that.”

Dimitri’s mouth opens a fraction, but no sound escapes him. His head leans back into the touch. Dedue cannot imagine ever disentangling himself from this moment.

“It’s been long enough,” he continues. “It’s your turn to rest now.”

This time, Dimitri’s eye flickers open, his forehead showing the barest of creases. Dedue smooths them over gently with his thumb.

“You must feel it,” Dedue insists softly. “Exhaustion down to your very bones. Aren’t you tired of fighting? Wouldn’t it be nice to leave that all behind just for one night?”

Dimitri’s jaw goes slack, and his eye flutters shut. Dedue holds his palm over it and feels the wisp of air from Dimitri’s sigh.

“Go to sleep, Dimitri,” Dedue says. “Sleep, and dream in tranquility.”

Mere moments later, Dimitri’s breathing goes light and even, and there are no further reactions as Dedue’s hands move around his face and hair. Dedue releases a long breath, and the pounding in his chest recedes into something more natural. He’s a little in awe that this actually worked, but mostly he feels a rush of relief that it did, that he was able to help Dimitri achieve a temporary peace.

His world may not need to revolve around Dimitri – nor does he really want it to, he realizes suddenly – but he will nevertheless strive for these moments, because following him is something he will choose to do.

Now, he just needs to wait for morning and Ashe’s signal, and pray that when he wakes, Dimitri will be ready for a new day.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little bit shorter and perfunctory, I apologize for that, but that's what's gonna allow me to get to a lot of juicy good stuff, so please do bear with me on this one. I should be able to update again very soon!

Dimitri slept, and he dreamed. His body was light as a feather, drifting through a calm breeze. His back and legs were cold, but the warmth at his head was so deep, it spread through to the rest of him like drinking in a hot cup of tea. The sweetest reprieve from all the aches and pains, from the daily hauntings that relentlessly pursued him, a constant barrage against his very soul that slowly ate away at it the more he tried to weather the storm.

Dedue was there. Dedue was the source of that soothing heat. If Dimitri tilted his head, twisted his neck just so, he could bury his nose in Dedue’s palm. Brush along the dried callouses, breathe in the scent of his skin, press his lips against him and not be denied.

In his haze of dreaming, Dedue simply stroked his fingers against Dimitri’s cheek.

In his blurred memories, Dedue had kissed him back. He had kissed him back, but then pulled away. Denied the truth to it.

He did not pull away this time. That he remained was the richest validation in all of Fódlan, and Dimitri’s heart sung with it.

When he awoke, his head was still in Dedue’s lap. One hand was buried in his hair, unmoving, while the other palm lay flat across the juncture of his shoulder and his chest. He looked up to find Dedue’s eyes were closed, his head bowed forward as his back rested against the stone prison wall.

As awareness returned to him, Dimitri felt, much more acutely, the chilly stone beneath him, the discomfort from lying on such a hard surface. He wanted to move, to sit up, but he was loath to abandon the warmth at his head and shoulder that grounded him. So he remained, listening to the gentle sounds of Dedue’s breathing. Longed to reach out and trace the scars across his face, the scars he bore all in Dimitri’s name. Wanted to press his lips against the dried skin, cherish every sacrifice, show his appreciation, his gratitude, his devotion in any way possible. Instead, limited by his chains, he extended his shackled arms, bent them over his chest up to meet Dedue’s hand at his shoulder, interlaced their fingers. Smiled as they shifted, held.

Dimitri’s mind settled on the word _bliss_. He felt like he could float in this forever.

Forever, naturally, unfortunately, was not part of the plan. Dimitri had lost all sense of time passing in the darkened dungeons, no light other than the one torch, which had grown dim, the flame slowly dying. But at some point, there was a knock on the door, multiple beats of a pattern he didn’t recognize.

Dedue’s eyes snapped open, alertness returning to them almost instantaneously. The hand holding his maintained its grip, but the hand in his hair fled, curled into a fist to give an answering knock against the wall, a different rhythm than the first.

With a clicking sound, the heavy iron door swung open, and a new, brighter torch poked its way into the room, carried by –

“Good morning, Ashe,” said Dedue.

Dimitri watched Ashe’s eyes as he observed them in the cell, saw the flurry of expressions and emotions that passed through – surprise, confusion, concern – before finally falling on relief. “Good morning Dedue, Your Highness,” he said. He came straight over to their bars and unlocked the prison door, swinging it open for them. His eyes lingered on where Dimitri and Dedue’s fingers were locked together.

At the same time that Dedue pulled his hand away, Dimitri moved, swung his arms forward and used the momentum to pull himself up into a sitting position.

“Thank you, Ashe,” Dedue said. “Did you relay my earlier message, then?”

Dimitri blinked. When had Dedue sent a message?

Ashe nodded with a smile. “Yes, I already spoke to the others. They’ve given us the all clear.” He bent over Dimitri, crouched down on one knee to his level. “Your Highness, please hold still, if you don’t mind, and I’ll release your bindings.”

Dimitri opened his mouth to speak, and promptly realized how dry and scratchy his throat was. He coughed a few times before holding out his wrists. “Yes. Thank you.”

Ashe reached forward, key in hand, and the constraints on Dimitri’s wrists released their hold on him with a soft click. Ashe deposited the chains off to the side and moved to work on his ankles while Dimitri rolled and flexed his wrists. Moments later, he was free.

As Ashe pushed himself back to his feet, Dimitri became aware that Dedue was standing over him as well, watching him closely. “Are you hurt anywhere, Your Highness?” he asked.

Dimitri tried very hard not to focus on the fact that Dedue had once again reverted back to using his title, and more on the feeling in his arms and legs. He stretched them out, wiggled his toes.

“Everything seems all right,” he confirmed.

The hint of a smile passed over Dedue’s face. “Good,” he said, and offered a hand.

Dimitri took it and let the warmth temporarily flood through him once more as he was pulled to his feet. Then Dedue released him and the moment passed.

“I’m glad to see you’re well,” Ashe said earnestly. “I was really hoping we would be able to release you this morning.”

Dimitri exchanged a glance with Dedue, and unspoken words passed between them. Dedue’s assessment of the situation from the night before. Part of him was struck by the sudden understanding that Dedue had formulated the evening’s plan entirely to ensure that he would be set free, and he felt a rush of gratitude once more. Closely followed by the memories of the way he’d treated Dedue, the harsh, venomous words that had spilled from his lips. Those thoughts were accompanied by waves of guilt, sinking to the pit of his stomach. Dedue had never done anything to deserve that side of him. Most other people had, sure, but never Dedue.

That sentiment grew stronger within him, but the other half of him was currently short-circuiting over the simple act of looking without speaking. How long had it been since he and Dedue were able to trade thoughts like that? Had it really been over five years, now? Dimitri was floored by the mental calculation of the vast amount of time that had separated those instances. When had they lost that part of their connection? _Why_ had they lost it?

This was proof, living hope, that they could retrieve it. Right?

He was jolted back from his jumbled musings, back to reality by Dedue’s voice, all businesslike and stern, so different from the honeyed words he’d spoken mere hours ago.

“What do we have time for?” he asked.

Ashe considered Dedue’s words carefully before responding. “Well, there’s not much of it, but we’re okay to eat something quick, so I stopped by the kitchens on my way over to save us time.” He shifted one hip forward, bringing notice to the large pouch resting there, strap slung over his shoulder. “After that, though, we should really meet with everyone in the war room.” He turned to Dimitri, and his expression turned sheepish. “We’ll, uh, your armor will be there for you.”

It wasn’t Ashe’s fault, Dimitri knew. He hadn’t been part of the group to take him down the other day. Dimitri wasn’t entirely certain how many days ago that was. If he tried too hard to think about it, his head ached. He brought the heel of his palm to rub against his eyelid. When he lowered his arm, he caught Dedue watching him carefully, a question in his eyes. Dimitri nodded silently and turned back to Ashe.

“Thank you all the same,” he managed.

Ashe flashed him a half-smile. “I want to believe your cause is just,” he said, somewhat melancholy. “I don’t agree with senseless killing, but Dedue believes there is still good in you, and I trust his judgement.”

Dimitri frowned, disbelieving. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dedue’s eyes narrow, glinting with something he couldn’t quite place.

He wasn’t sure what was still good about him. He was a brutal killer, after all. A murderous monster who left nothing but death and destruction in his wake. All for the sake of those he’d lost nine years ago.

Dimitri let out a heavy sigh. “You’re both fools, then.”

He watched as Ashe and Dedue traded looks, and something alien burned beneath his ribs. Something almost akin to jealousy. It corroded his insides, urging him to insert himself between them and stop this petty nonsense –

“Your Highness, I think you should stop by my room later after the meeting,” Dedue said, forcing his mounting dark thoughts to a skidding halt. “There are some things we should discuss in private.”

Ashe was looking at them strangely, and Dimitri felt like a bucket of ice-water had been poured down his back. He shook himself over.

“Whatever,” he replied. “But I am utterly sick of this dungeon. Is there any reason we’re still down here?”

Ashe shook his head. Even though Dimitri was focused on him, it was as if he could feel Dedue’s gaze searing through the back of his head.

“All right,” Ashe said, “let’s head back up, get some fresh air and some food.”

~o~

They munched on some freshly baked bread, and Dimitri tried not to choke on the apple Ashe procured from his pouch for him – the rush of phantom sensations almost strong enough to knock him off his feet – and they made their way to the war council. There, he found his armor, cloak, and lance all propped in a corner of the room, out of the way, just as Ashe had promised. However, his attention was diverted by the audience already present at the table.

The rest of the Blue Lions house was there, as were the most important lieutenants of the Knights of Seiros. On top of that, at the head of the table sat the professor, flanked on either side by Gilbert and Rodrigue. Rodrigue, who stared at him with so much worry and pity and guilt. Dimitri wanted nothing more than to wipe that look off his face with his own fists, even if it would land him back in the cell. But the wiser part of him held off, for now. There were more important matters to deal with. 

He paid some attention to what the council had to say, but they seemed to be putting an overly flowery spin on _Imperial soldiers keep intercepting our messengers which is preventing us from communicating with the Alliance_. There was truly no extra substance to what they discussed.

It was aggravating, almost infuriating, how daft they all were. His fingers twitched at his sides, slowly curling into fists the longer this dragged on.

_What pointless banter,_ Glenn said, resurfacing after what had been a welcome respite. _Utter nonsense. There is only one clear road to take, here._

“I know,” Dimitri muttered under his breath, squeezing his eye shut.

From behind him, he heard, just barely audible, a hushing sound, just a mild hum. He glanced over his shoulder and found Dedue looking at him intently, though his eyes were gentle. He gave Dimitri a small nod, and understanding passed through them once more.

So Dimitri turned back to the meeting, crossed his arms over his chest, and took a deep breath.

When they debated whether or not von Riegan would be amenable to their passing through his territory for the fourth time, though, Dimitri snapped.

“Enough of this bloviating,” he growled, bringing the current farcical rumblings to a halt. “Our path is clear. We’re wasting precious time posturing when we should be marching for Enbarr.”

To his astonishment, it was Gilbert who defended him. “His Highness has a point,” he agreed, looking bone-deep weary, more wrinkles across his face than Dimitri remembered, red hair being replaced with more and more grey. “There is no longer any use in delaying. We know that our messengers are unable to reach Claude, so all we can do is move forward and hope that he will let us through. He has been agreeable in our capture of Myrddin, so there is hardly any reason to doubt we will have further issues from his end.”

“That may be true,” Rodrigue spoke up, “but we will certainly clash with Imperial forces stationed nearby. We must be prepared for that.”

Dimitri snorted. “This is war, Rodrigue. If these soldiers are not suited for fighting, they shouldn’t be here in the first place.”

Rodrigue’s chest heaved with a sigh that did not appear to come out. He was spared from replying, however, by the professor lifting her chin and making the official declaration to ready the troops so they could move out tomorrow.

The war council cleared out very quickly after that, but Dimitri didn’t miss how everyone who moved near him twisted and stepped aside as they passed him, giving him a much wider berth than necessary. Always out of arm’s reach. He found he didn’t really begrudge them that, though the conspicuousness was annoying.

Once everyone but Dedue had left the room, Dedue stepped over to the corner that hosted Dimitri’s things and began picking them up.

“Wait,” Dimitri said hurriedly, taking quick strides to join him. “You don’t need –”

“We can bring them back to my room,” Dedue said, cutting smoothly across. “You don’t need to don your armor just yet.”

Dimitri bristled. “And what if I want to?”

“I have other plans,” Dedue said with a nonchalant shrug.

And Dimitri knew, he _knew_ what that meant, and his pulse spiked almost instantly in spite of himself. Worse, possibly, was how stoic Dedue remained, even when his mouth spewed words like that. As if it was nothing to him how their recent times together made Dimitri feel.

That was unfair, though. If Dedue truly didn’t care, he wouldn’t have been doing any of this. He wouldn’t have cradled Dimitri’s head in his lap last night, urging and soothing him to sleep. He wouldn’t have made so many efforts to help, wouldn’t have acquiesced to Dimitri’s request to call him by name during those moments. He wouldn’t have kissed back. 

That memory was one of the strongest banes of his existence, sometimes flaring worse than the voices that gnawed from within his head, the source of those splitting headaches. It had only lasted a few seconds at most, he knew, but Dedue had veritably kissed him back. He’d felt that coarse scar across Dedue’s lip as if it were his own. And then, just as swiftly as it had begun, it ended, and the sudden transition from feeling so much to feeling so utterly empty was agony.

That Dedue wanted to meet with him again, to try something else perhaps… Dimitri clung to that glimmer of possibility, because it had to mean something. Sure, Dimitri wanted to march to Enbarr, to lay siege to the Imperial palace and finally draw the blood that taunted him in every waking nightmare – but in this fragment of time, he wanted other things too.

_You can never abandon us, _whispered the dead.

“I’m not,” Dimitri mumbled. The plan was to march tomorrow. What did it matter to them what he did today?

_You are a monster._

“_I know_,” he replied forcefully. A selfish beast he was, and a selfish beast he would remain. But if Dedue was willing to indulge him, then Dimitri wanted to take and take and take until there was nothing left to fight.

A brush of a shoulder against his, the slightest jostling motion. Dimitri blinked back to his crouch over his armor, a hand on one of his shin guards. Next to him, Dedue straightened. He was carrying most of the armor already, leaving only a few pieces, along with Areadbhar, for Dimitri.

Dimitri’s cheeks burned as the awareness settled in. He gave Dedue a curt nod and gathered the rest of his things, and the two walked out together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upcoming: To combat some of the issues that are still present within Dimitri's psyche, Dedue has a plan. It may or may not backfire. And of course, there's a certain battle coming up...


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up taking a little break after posting the last chapter. Back at it again here, with a new tag update for bondage. Make of that what you will.

His Highness follows Dedue to his rooms easily, no hint of any struggle. There was that instance as they were picking up his armor, but Dedue had been able to rectify the situation easily enough. Otherwise, outside of the war council meeting, His Highness has been quite docile. If Dedue hadn’t known better, he would have thought the outburst that led to him being jailed for a few days would have been nothing more than a ruse.

Their night in the cell had given him even more ideas about how to help His Highness face his inner demons. The very fact that he had willingly gone to sleep, after Dedue’s encouragement and permission, was proof enough of that. Dedue supposes that shouldn’t come as a surprise; His Highness has always wished to be rid of the voices that plague him – but he remains chained to their will.

He shouldn’t have to endure that forever, or even until they’ve killed Edelgard. The more time Dedue spends thinking about his own desires, the more resolute in his determination to allow His Highness to do the same, to place himself ahead of the dead.

So they enter Dedue’s room, and Dedue lays the armor off to the usual corner for these things. His Highness follows his lead, deposits his things there as well. He looks calmer than the previous times they’ve met here as of late, but there is still trepidation in his eye. Dedue spots the slightest tremor to His Highness’ fingers, the tiniest of scratching motions against his thighs.

He breaks the silence: “Your Highness, I have a question for you.”

His words are met with a puzzled stare. “What kind of question?” comes the wary reply.

Dedue shakes his head as means of placating him. “Let’s sit for this.” He moves towards the bed, sits near the pillow. Pats the foot of the bed. His Highness hesitates, then slowly makes his way over until they are both sitting, a careful distance between them. Dedue fights off the urge to bridge that gap. That is something for later. This needs to come first.

“What is it that you want?” Dedue asks.

His Highness’ eye widens as his brow furrows in bewilderment. “What do I want?” he repeats. “In what sense? Why are you asking me this?”

“Mercedes advised me to think about things that I want in life,” Dedue explains. “It made me wonder if you have done the same for yourself lately.”

Instead of confusion this time, he gets a snort of disbelief. “Don’t be daft. I know you have a keen eye. You should know better than anyone else how selfish I am.”

“I know better than anyone else how false that is,” Dedue replies easily.

“That’s a load of rubbish.”

“Untrue. Everything you are leading this army towards is all in the name of avenging the fallen. It is very bold and brave of you to bear their burdens like you do for them.”

He watches His Highness’ fingers dig into his thighs. “That’s a ridiculous spin on the fact that I fight for my own peace of mind above all else.”

Dedue says, as gently as possible, “You’re allowed to strive for peace.”

Hands clenching into fists, a violent tremor, followed by smaller ones. “I’ve told you before: I do not deserve peace.”

Hearing those words again hurts. Dedue had been hopeful that they were building towards something better for His Highness, but they still aren’t there yet. Though, judging by his reactions, they’re moving in the right direction. He’s wavering, but not breaking through.

Dedue wants several things these days, desires that he’s slowly convincing himself he’s justified in having. One of those is helping Dimitri recover from the seemingly endless suffering he’s endured. It is too painful to stand idly by and watch the one who pulled him from the darkness unable to find the light again. It’s more than just duty as a vassal. Dedue cares, has always cared. That’s why Dimitri’s well-being is paramount to almost everything else.

Dedue inches closer so that he can cover one of His Highness’ hands with his own, and the trembling stops. There’s a sharp intake of air as Dedue uses both of his hands now to slowly unfurl His Highness’ fists.

“It’s all right,” he soothes. “You need not fret over this for now. I’m sorry for causing you distress.” A shaky exhale. Fingers attempt to clench again, but Dedue doesn’t let them. This definitely calls for a change of subject, one that His Highness – Dimitri – can use to let go of this tension. “Shall we forget about this for now?”

He receives a firm nod in response, eye shut, jaw clenched, creases across Dimitri’s brow. Dedue smoothes over them with his thumb.

“All right, Dimitri, let’s get you lying down for a bit.”

The effect of saying his name aloud is instantaneous. Hands on Dimitri’s shoulders, Dedue shifts and guides him down so that he is lying on his back. His legs dangle past the knees over the edge of the bed, so Dedue eases him up until Dimitri’s head rests on one of the pillows. Dedue tosses the other pillow overhead, onto to the floor and out of the way.

He accomplishes all this with little resistance; Dimitri is pliant under his palms, taking on whatever shape Dedue maneuvers him into. Dedue bites back the urge to point out that he must clearly have some idea of what he wants, if he’s so willingly malleable here. He is certain bringing that kind of statement to the forefront would only spark another struggle. And while some struggle might be welcomed here, that’s not quite what he has in mind for today.

“Good. Keep your eye closed, and relax for a little while,” Dedue instructs. “I am not leaving the room, but I need to get something, and then I will be back by your side.”

There is no response, but there are no adverse movements either. Dedue watches the rise and fall of Dimitri’s chest, the telltale signs of someone focusing very hard on their breathing. Satisfied, Dedue stands up from the bed and moves to his closet, opening the door and digging through the bag on the floor in the back until he finds what he’s looking for: ropes and clips and other various bindings. He’s not entirely certain His Highness will be amenable to such activities, but given how well things went in the prison cell – relatively speaking – it’s worth attempting.

He approaches the bed and drops the items on the mattress, next to Dimitri’s body but keeping some distance in between. He moves around the edges of the bed, tying a piece of rope to each of the bed posts. The ones at the foot of the bed are trickier, since there isn’t much there, so he has to tie the rope to the legs instead and pull it upwards and over. He tests the knots, not entirely sure they will maintain their hold if the Blaiddyd crest flares, but he supposes the power of Dimitri’s crest would sooner snap the ropes in two rather than untangle them.

Dedue waffles momentarily on where to start, before settling on the legs. Rope in one hand, he reaches with the other and clasps it around Dimitri’s ankle. He feels the jolt beneath his skin at the initial contact, presses down in response, not too much pressure.

“It’s just me,” he says. Dimitri sighs and his ankle sinks into the blankets.

Dedue brings the rope closer, then falters. He’s not sure what’s more appropriate: warning Dimitri in advance, or not. On one hand, he believes in honesty, but on the other, mitigating as much of a struggle as possible would be preferable.

He asks instead, “Do you trust me right now?”

The slightest shiver beneath his touch. Dimitri’s head is tilted back, so from this angle he can’t fully make out his expression. There is a long pause.

“Yes,” answers Dimitri.

That is assurance enough for Dedue. He begins to stroke a circular motion around Dimitri’s ankle, first with his fingers and the slight touch of nails, then slowly, painstakingly replacing his fingers with the rope. Uses the hemp instead to caress Dimitri’s skin, until he’s managed to circle it around the ankle. Keeps it loose enough that there is ample breathing room but tight enough that his foot should not slide out, he ties the knot.

He continues to pat Dimitri’s leg after he finishes, and he can feel the stiffness of muscles contracting under him, tensing at the foreign feeling around his ankle.

“Dimitri,” he says, and is rewarded with another shiver, followed by a shaky release of air. “Can you continue to trust me?”

“Yes,” Dimitri says, answering faster this time.

Emboldened, Dedue repeats his motions with his hand and the rope on the other leg. Ties that one up as well, and soon enough both of His Highness’ legs are bound at the ankles. Dimitri holds miraculously still throughout the process, working hard on maintaining deep breaths by the sounds of it. There’s a warm swoop of appreciation blooming in Dedue’s belly, knowing that Dimitri is trying so hard for him. It spurs him onwards, inspires him to make sure this will be even better than whatever else they’ve tried before.

The second half of this endeavor is the trickier end, however. Dimitri’s arms are extended by his sides, fingers curling into the blankets. With each exhale, they shake and stretch a little, as if he is attempting to will himself to relax. Dedue doesn’t want to ruin the progress he’s making, but they might have no choice but to surmount this hump before things can improve further.

He starts by moving to sit by the head of the bed, next to Dimitri’s shoulder, and by taking one of Dimitri’s hands in his own. It’s cold, a little clammy. Calloused in places, just like Dedue’s. When Dedue envelops that hand in his, it reaches, encloses around one of his, squeezes just a fraction.

It’s all the validation Dedue needs. He interlaces his fingers with Dimitri’s, and frees his other hand to fetch the rope hanging from the headrest.

The moment he weaves the rope around Dimitri’s wrist, the moment Dimitri balks at the rough brush of hemp against his skin and his eye opens wide – that’s when, inevitably, things have to go awry.

Dimitri’s entire body spasms and he jolts upright. Dedue manages to retain his hold on his wrist, the rope still encircling it, but he is unable to finish tying his knot. Instead, he maintains, as strong and solid as possible, while Dimitri’s eye tracks the bindings at his feet, and predictably attempts to jerk his arm away.

“What are you doing?” Dimitri gasps.

“Shh.” Dedue holds still, willing himself to be but a stone that Dimitri can thrash upon, an immovable object. He thinks, fleetingly, of how Dimitri is an irresistible force of nature, the way every movement blazes with the extra power of the Blaiddyd crest, the way soldiers can’t help but be drawn to him despite the certain doom that awaits them upon facing him in combat. They are polar opposites of one another, and Dedue knows he can never hope to beat His Highness in a fight. However, he can resist in times like these, when he knows that all Dimitri really needs is an anchor, a line to reel him back in.

Dedue says, “You said you could trust me, right?” Dimitri continues to struggle, but try as he might to yank him arm away, his legs are bound, and he is at a positional disadvantage, panting with exertion as his expression displays a mixture of shock and betrayal. It sends a pang of almost-regret through Dedue’s chest, but still, he holds steady, not relenting nor pursuing. “Let it out if you need to. But I know you trust me, and you know I will never do anything to betray that trust.”

He allows Dimitri to fight back a brief while longer, but eventually decides it is time to resume his work. He forcibly ties the knot in the rope around Dimitri’s wrist, even as Dimitri grunts and swings his free arm around to punch him. Considering the lack of momentum it carries, Dedue absorbs the blow to his shoulder unflinchingly, though the crest-infused attack is still certain to leave a bruise.

Dimitri is nonverbal as he fights back, all huffs of air or growls of frustration, but Dedue will not stop here. To get to the far arm, he swings his leg over Dimitri’s chest, straddling him and pinning him down with his weight so that he cannot lift himself up off the bed. Like this, it is all too easy to grab a hold of Dimitri’s free arm, and there is much less resistance in tying it down. Even so, the tension pushing back against him is near overwhelming, but even with the Blaiddyd crest flaring up, Dimitri lacks the support necessary to overcome him.

The final knot tied, Dedue sits back, still hovering over Dimitri on the bed. Dimitri’s fists are clenched, veins bulging at his wrists as he tries to wrench himself free of his constraints, but luckily – for Dedue, anyways – there is no real power behind his attempts anymore. His arms are held over his head and out to the sides, and so he is laid out like a starfish on the bed, no source of momentum possible.

“You can give in,” Dedue tells him softly. “You can stop fighting. No harm will befall you while you are like this. I am here, and I give you my word.”

He leans forward, presses his palms into each of Dimitri’s biceps. Dimitri shudders beneath him, wide-eyed and staring, neck craned to look across his body at Dedue where he is perched on top of him. His muscles clench as he resists the initial touch, so Dedue presses down harder, almost kneading at the muscles. Slowly, they relax, as Dimitri’s mouth hangs open and he breathes heavily.

“You’re all right,” Dedue soothes. “You don’t have to fight this. You don’t want to fight this anyways, do you?”

Dimitri’s head falls back onto the pillow, his jaw slack as his eye flutters shut. Beneath Dedue’s palms, the tension bleeds away as Dimitri’s body finally gives in and turns docile. There’s something very satisfying about being in charge, knowing the crown prince will submit to him however he pleases, knowing that he alone can draw out these soft sighs in these vulnerable moments. Vulnerable, in ways that the rest of the world has never seen, may never see.

There is a lot of fight left in him, Dedue knows, but it’s not meant for this. Thinking of how much importance Dedue has always placed on Dimitri giving in to his desires, Dedue figures maybe it’s rather hypocritical of him to not allow himself his own.

Originally, assuming his plan succeeded, Dedue intended to pull away and leave Dimitri there for some time while he occupied himself with other things in the room. But now that he’s sitting here, balancing carefully, not quite putting his weight down over Dimitri’s body, he feels the inexplicable urge to remain, like driftwood pulled along by the tide, a steady current he has no desire to fight.

He sits back on his heels a little and watches Dimitri, watches his wrists twitch in his binds, not fighting, but more as if he’s reminding himself he’s there, he’s grounded.

“That’s right,” Dedue tells him. He thinks back to Dimitri’s own internal struggles, evident as daylight for Dedue to see, and he continues, inspired. “The rest of the world doesn’t matter for now. Here in this room, your burdens have no weight. Do you understand?”

He receives a slight nod, but now that Dedue has the idea in his head, he can’t shake the image he wishes to conjure before him. His next words are a command: “Look at me, and speak.”

Dimitri lowers his chin, head propped up sufficiently by the pillow so as not to be wholly uncomfortable and give him a neck cramp later, and gazes at Dedue with a glassy eye. The first time he opens his mouth, no sound escapes, but when he swallows and tries again, the words come out hoarse.

“I understand.”

“That’s good,” Dedue says, and he means it, hopes Dimitri can hear how much it’s genuine. “You see, there is still a lot of good left in you. It’s okay if you don’t feel it normally, but in this room, with me, you know it to be true, don’t you?”

Dimitri’s forehead creases. “I –” he starts, voice cracking, stops. Even though he’s slipping, it seems he hasn’t quite lost all of his fight against Dedue, and the world, just yet.

Dedue leans over him and smooths his fingers over Dimitri’s brow, brushing aside stray strands of hair, carding his hand through the tangles, careful not to tug on them. Then he brings both palms down to press against Dimitri’s arms, sinks his weight down bit by bit over Dimitri’s chest. A reminder that he cannot win here, and that giving up this fight is okay.

“Don’t fight this place,” Dedue says softly. Muscles tense under his grip, hot and insistent. “You’ve been so good here. Tell me that you have been good.”

Dimitri’s body shudders violently, and a garbled noise escapes him, frantic.

Dedue presses down harder. “Tell me, Dimitri.”

Another shiver, a breathy moan, and Dedue feels it when the tension leaks away from beneath him, the dam breaking at last.

Dimitri whispers, his eye tracking one of Dedue’s arms, wide and pleading, “I’ve been good.”

“There you go,” Dedue says encouragingly, still maintaining the pressure, relishing in how malleable Dimitri has become underneath him. “You’ve been deserving of good, of peace like you have here. Do you know why that is?”

His gaze is going unfocused again, but Dimitri shakes his head.

“I am going to list the reasons why, and you are going to repeat them,” Dedue says. “Will you do that for me?”

“Yes.” The word is all air, his eye lidded. Dedue momentarily distracted by how long his lashes are.

Dedue takes a breath, clears his mind. “You are loyal.”

A slight quiver in his grip, a trembling sigh. “I am loyal.”

“You are devoted to your loved ones.”

“Devoted.”

Dedue purses his lips together. Perhaps too many words will be too complex for him to grasp in this state. Nevertheless, this is much better progress than his attempt at conversation when His Highness was more lucid.

“Your cause is just.”

“My cause is just."

“You are strong.”

“I am strong.”

Dedue attempts one last time: “You deserve peace.”

This one is more difficult to draw out. Dimitri’s eye closes, and his wrists flex once more against the bindings. Dedue tightens his fingers around Dimitri’s biceps, still not enough to bruise, but enough to force a wet gasp from his lips.

“You would not be here if you didn’t,” Dedue tries again. “Outside this room, you don’t have to believe it. But here and now? Tell me you deserve peace.” 

A soft whine escapes through gritted teeth. Dedue removes one of his hands from Dimitri’s arm and brings it, instinctively, to cup his jaw instead. Hushes him, strokes gentle fingers across, feels it unclench, relax.

“I – I deserve…” Wisps of air that Dedue has to lean down, ear inches away from Dimitri’s mouth, to hear, to translate them into words, “…peace.”

“Very good.” Before he can think the better of it and stop himself, since he is already so close, Dedue touches his lips to Dimitri’s forehead. Tastes the salted beads of sweat that have grown there. Breathes against him before he sits up and backs away, and says, “You’ve been so good for me here.”

He receives a contended sigh in return, a little whisper of an ‘ah’ sound from Dimitri’s lips. It makes Dedue smile. He’s relieved that his plans have worked rather well – for the most part, at least, except for that one time Dimitri was so far gone he tried to – succeeded in it – kiss him. He hasn’t quite figured out what it was that pulled Dimitri in so deep that time compared to others. Even now, Dedue surmises that Dimitri will be in deep for a while here, but he isn’t sure what that will mean for afterwards, if Dimitri will make another attempt at kissing him, if Dedue will have to torment himself once again and pull away.

The display of affection is unusual, but a faint reminder of how things were nine years ago. They’ve always been comfortable with touches; hands on shoulders, bodies pressed close for warmth, hands in hands. They harbored less inhibitions, back then. It was an easier time, where they could simply be themselves, be themselves together, and the responsibilities the world bestowed upon them were still far off in a distant future. They had time on their side, if only for a short while.

Taking Dimitri out of his head is a reminder of that time, those carefree afternoons in the fields, huddling over insects and anything interesting they could find together. In the library, heads nocked together while Dedue stared at foreign symbols on paper and Dimitri pointed and made sense of each and every one. Cuddling under blankets together at midnight when one of them experienced night terrors. Dedue thinks that maybe Dimitri feels closer to those moments when he’s like this.

Dedue certainly feels that way, has been the more they’ve experimented together like this. It would be so easy to just lean forward, to stretch his limbs and drape them across Dimitri’s body, to lie on the bed together for old times’ sake. He knows, in this state, that Dimitri would welcome it wholeheartedly. He can imagine the soft sounds Dimitri would make, the way his warm body would meld against his.

Heat curls low and gentle in his belly, traveling lower. He adjusts the weight of his hips against Dimitri’s chest, and the friction sends a wave of sparks through him, and he wants – 

He wants –

His thoughts vanish into wisps of smoke and he digs his knees into the mattress to push himself into an upright position, exposing his hips to nothing but air instead.

Trembling, he breathes in deep, trying to parse through the moments in his brain that could make sense of what just happened. At the very least, thankfully his antics have gone unnoticed, as Dimitri lies peaceful beneath him. But that could have been a disaster.

In. Hold. Out.

Dedue wants several things these days, Mercedes’ words not merely pulling aside the curtains they were hidden behind for him to view, but somehow opening the window and setting them free, out into the world where they could influence and affect him. A long time ago, he craved this sort of intimacy with Dimitri, but stowed his longing away so that he could better serve as a stalwart vassal instead. It’s always been there, kept safely locked away, but now it is clawing its way out of his body, demanding to mark his world and manifest within it. 

He wants all of these activities, and more. It was never solely for Dimitri’s sake, to help him combat his demons. But Dedue cares for him more than anyone else in the world. Of course he wants to make things better for him. Deep down, however, he is also fulfilling his most treacherous desires.

He wants to pin Dimitri to the bed, press his weight against him, force Dimitri to submit to him, willingly, over and over and over again. He wants to take him to places he’s never been, open doors to vast new spaces in his mind, take him to fields of Duscur blooms and bright skies as blue as his eye, introduce him to Mara and the others, speak the beautiful syllables of his name a million times. He wants to take control, to take Dimitri apart, to drink in the sweet moans he’d no doubt make, to kiss him and bite him and mark him in ways that no one else will ever see, because no one will ever come close to knowing what they do behind closed doors, the way Dimitri opens up for him and no one else –

In. Hold. Out.

That should not have happened. Reminiscing is one thing, but allowing himself to feel…_that_…is not all right.

In. Hold. Out.

Dedue wants several things these days, but the one thing he most definitely does _not_ want is to take advantage.

Torturously slow, he gingerly lifts his leg and swings himself over to the edge of the mattress; then, carefully so as not to disturb the weight too much and yank His Highness out of his floating space. Confident that he’s succeeded, he turns his back to the bed, walks over to the opposing wall, and thunks his head gently against it.

The wall is cold and hard against his forehead, which helps. Dedue closes his eyes for a moment, focusing on his meditative breathing exercises until his pulse has slowed to a comfortable rate. On the last breath, he exhales harshly and turns around to look once more at Dimitri tied up on his bed.

Dimitri lies there as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred in this room just minutes prior. His wrists and ankles continue to adjust themselves, feeling the rough hemp – there will no doubt be some lingering irritation when this is over, but Dedue has some salve for that – all the while breathing slowly, deeply, almost as though he is asleep.

Dedue resists the urge to brush the wayward strands of hair from his face, and instead moves to undo the knots at his wrists. Dimitri’s head tilts sideways and his eye opens, but his expression is glazed over, not present yet. Dedue meticulously unties the knot, allowing himself the small pleasure of stroking fingers across Dimitri’s wrists. It’s a necessary part of the care for this exercise, after all, so he feels justified in taking this where he can.

Dimitri blinks, inching closer to awareness, as Dedue uncoils the rope against his other wrist. He repeats the same caressing motions under Dimitri’s watchful gaze, and tries to tamp down the flutter in his stomach when Dimitri smiles weakly at him.

Once Dedue has untied all of the ropes, he grabs the jar of salve he’d left on the nightstand for this bit. The lotion is cool and smooth against his fingertips as he scoops out a small portion and begins rubbing it into Dimitri’s ankles. Dimitri very nearly kicks him at the first touch, cold and unexpected, but Dedue encloses his clean hand around his calf and Dimitri gentles almost instantly.

Dedue repeats this for all four joints affected by the rope, rubbing the soothing salve into any red spots that have blossomed on his skin. Dimitri is awake for the entire thing, though he hasn’t regained his speech yet. He watches, though, and even when Dedue isn’t looking at his face he can feel the stare on him, searing the back of his neck, making him want to smother Dimitri’s eye with his palm and drop bruising kisses all over his face.

He pauses for a moment, takes another deep breath. He will not shirk his responsibilities in this room, to bring His Highness back to full attentiveness. But he cannot take anything in return until His Highness is fully alert, and even then, he will not be willing. Better to shove these thoughts deep into another box for now, so that he doesn’t accidentally make anything uneasy between them. Last time, with the kiss, he was lucky that Dimitri was still floating; otherwise, he certainly would have noticed Dedue’s lapse in self-control, the way he’d kissed back. He will take his tiny victories where he can, so long as he can preserve the rest of what they have together.

He will care for His Highness, return him safe and sound to the world. He will don his best armor and sharpen his blades. He will march with him over the Great Bridge of Myrddin, through Gronder Field for whatever clash with Imperial forces that awaits them there. He will escort His Highness all the way to Enbarr, cut down any foe that stands against him.

He will do all of these things because he wants to. And he will live to tell the tales of it, because His Highness commanded him to survive, and he will live to chase after his dreams.

Dedue wants several things these days, but the universe does not show favoritism. There will be things that he cannot attain, because they may clash with someone else’s ideals. Wanting Dimitri like this will always be out of his reach.

That will not prevent him from supporting the one person in his life dearer to him than anyone else, nor the pursuit of Duscur’s reconciliation, possibly with Ashe by his side as well. Dedue will strive for all of these things, starting here in this room.

Dedue wants several things these days, but at least he has ample experience in denying himself when he needs to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the aftermath of Gronder.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Screw the alternating POV order I'd established for myself, have some more Dedue perspective on the aftermath of Gronder. (I decided I didn't want to write about the entire thing. We've all played through it.)

As expected, they are intercepted at Gronder by a legion of Imperial soldiers led by Edelgard herself. Von Riegan is there as well, commanding a battalion of Alliance troops. The battle is messy and bloody, and in the chaos they nearly clash with Claude’s forces despite their best intentions to work together. Somehow, despite this, they manage to eliminate a massive chunk of Edelgard’s fighters and force her to retreat to Enbarr.

But even with this victory, and the promise of smooth passage to give pursuit and meet her again in the capital, they sustain heavy losses and are forced to regroup back at the monastery. To make matters worse, Lord Fraldarius dies taking a mortal wound meant for His Highness, after the fighting had ended and Dedue had been sent to search for survivors with some of the others.

They give him as much of a proper burial as they can muster. Dedue enlists Ashe’s help in picking out flowers from their gardens to lay at his burial site, very much a makeshift grave with their limited resources. It’s messy and muddy, because a heavy rain hits in the process, harsh and relentless. Nevertheless, the professor leads a small service amid the downpour, the general atmosphere desperate to believe they’ve done enough.

His Highness does not approach the grave with everyone else present. Dedue hangs back as well, but allows a significant amount of space between them. His Highness’ shoulders hunch and shake, his head bowed low, sticky wet hair draped over his face. 

After their ceremony is complete, His Highness turns swiftly and storms off with no regard for how drenched his feet must become by stomping in the larger puddles. Dedue gives him a brief head start before stepping after him, only to be stopped by a hand on his arm.

It’s the professor, soaking and shivering in the cold rain like the rest of them, for all her superhuman abilities. Her gaze severe, but not unkind, she says, “Leave him be for now. I’ll handle it.”

Dedue does not doubt her capabilities – after all, she’d succeeded in keeping His Highness mostly in check before he’d returned to them – but he is perturbed by the way she looks at him, as though she’s peering through a window to his soul through his eyes. He wonders, with her old chambers immediately next to his, how much she truly knows, if she’s realized the trouble Dedue has accidentally caused by temporarily releasing his desires, letting his feelings briefly go unchecked. Wonders if she knows all this, and if she means to keep him away from His Highness for a time.

As if she can sense his concerns, for all he tries to keep an impassive face, she gives him a reassuring smile. “He’ll need you later,” she says, almost shrewdly.

Dedue exhales slowly and nods. “I will be there for His Highness whenever he calls, for whatever he asks for,” he promises.

“I know,” she replies simply. “I trust you to give him whatever he needs.” One last, pointed stare, and then Dedue’s watching her retreating back as she vanishes into the rainy night after His Highness, feeling a little bit like he’s gone back in time and she’s administering a lengthy test to him that he’s not sure how to complete.

~o~

The knock sounds at his door far too late at night, long after Dedue has showered, while he’s dressed only in his smallclothes and relaxing in his bed. It’s so tentative he barely hears it over the pattering of rain at his windowsill, but it sends a chill running down his spine instantly. He jolts to his feet to throw on a loose clean shirt, because it’s His Highness, it has to be, and even without his promise to the professor there is no way he does not open his door, step back out into the rain if need be.

He’s still pulling the shirt down to cover his torso with one hand as he opens the door with the other. Sure enough, His Highness stands before him, soaked and shivering, rain streaming down his hair, his face, dripping down his clothes and to his feet. He looks up at Dedue, curled in on himself, his eye red and puffy and wet from more than just the weather, and Dedue has never seen him look so small.

It breaks his heart.

He quickly extends his arm around His Highness’ shoulders, settling his hand between his shoulder blades and grimacing to himself at how drenched it is, cold and sticking to the skin. Dedue ushers him inside and out of the downpour, closing and locking the door behind him.

His Highness stumbles as Dedue leads him in; Dedue’s arm snakes around under his armpit as his free hand pushes against his chest, steadying him upright, refusing to let him fall. His chest tightens as he guides His Highness over to his desk chair for him to sit, as he realizes that he is practically supporting a dead weight.

He’s sinking, away from Dedue and the rest of the world, but Dedue will take the plunge after him.

“Your Highness, can you listen to me for a minute?” Dedue asks. His teal scarf from Duscur sits neatly folded on the chair, so he extends an arm to drape it over the back of the seat instead. He then lowers His Highness into the chair, where he slumps over, breaths coming out ragged; he releases a choked-up sob and Dedue winces, the dull ache beneath his ribs intensifying.

It swiftly becomes clear that His Highness is completely nonverbal, but capable of small movements as his head bobs briefly in a nod.

“Thank you,” Dedue says; he’s not sure why, but it seems like the right thing to say, in this. “We need to get you out of these clothes before you get sick. I will prepare a warm bath for you.”

A much more distinct reaction this time, head shaking vigorously, eye squeezed shut, more tears spilling down and adding to the wet tracks on his cheek.

Dedue frowns. “Your Highness, you cannot afford to catch an illness –”

“No,” His Highness interrupts, and it comes out as a wheeze. “No bath. Just.” He shudders violently, no doubt chilled to the bone, and Dedue leans down to rub up and down his shoulders while he finds his words.

“Stay.”

The very notion that His Highness feels the need to ask this of him, as if Dedue would do anything but, is like a knife twisting in his gut. He combs through His Highness’ matted hair with his fingers, pulling it back and out of his face. Uses his thumb to brush the tears away from his eye, lashes tickling over it as they blink.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dedue says. “I promise.” His Highness sniffles, then hiccups, in response. “We still need to get you out of these clothes, though. No bath, I promise,” he adds, as His Highness’ eye opens wide and terrified, a look he should never have to wear. “We’ll get you a towel to dry off, and a dry set of clothes, and neither of us will go anywhere. All right?”

His Highness nods slowly, still trembling all over. Dedue straightens, but keeps his hands on His Highness’ shoulders, not wishing to break contact until the last possible second. “I’m just going to grab you a towel from my closet, and then I will be right back.” His Highness makes a hurt noise and Dedue’s heart sinks even further into a bottomless depth. “I’m not leaving you,” he promises, and his voice nearly breaks as emotions he’s been trying to keep at bay threaten to overtake him. “I’m just stepping away and coming right back.”

He looks away and takes a deep breath to steady himself, and then he releases his grip.

His pulse roars in his ears as he takes two long strides over to his closet, grabs two fistfuls of towel and rushes back to His Highness’ side. His Highness’ arms have curled around his own chest, hugging himself tightly, bent over so that his head is practically resting upon his knees. Dedue nudges him, straightens his back, and His Highness, though tense, moves with him. He drops the towels to the floor at his feet for now and works to pull His Highness’ shirt over his head. It’s complicated since His Highness displays no desire to be helpful, to consciously do anything at all, but Dedue maneuvers his arms as best he can and is eventually able to wrangle the shirt off. The soaked shirt is discarded in the corner immediately and replaced with a large towel, over the shoulders and wrapped around like a cloak.

“There we go,” Dedue says softly. “Just going to get you out of the wet and cold, get you comfortable.” Another shiver and a sniffle.

Dedue repeats the same procedure for his pants, carefully unbuttoning them at the waist and shimmying them down, meeting resistance around the hips where His Highness is seated with all of his weight. Dedue lifts him gently, one leg one bit at a time, and eventually he gets the pants and smallclothes to His Highness’ knees where he can swiftly slide them down and off. He covers His Highness’ lower body with another large towel, internally thankful that he keeps enough extras that he’s not scrambling in this situation.

He takes a smaller towel around the back of the chair to the dripping blond hair, wraps it all within from under the back of the neck, massages the cloth into His Highness’ scalp, drags it across strands of wet hair. His Highness shudders and exhales hard, lucid enough to clutch the towel tighter around his shoulders, as if trying to shield as much of himself as possible from the world, and he lists backwards into Dedue’s touch. 

Dedue finishes with the hair and discards the smaller towel into the pile of His Highness’ wet clothes. He will deal with that later. He moves to face His Highness from the front, bends down to his knees and uses the second large towel to pat his legs dry. He leaves it there when he straightens up to rub the upper towel over His Highness’ shoulders, back, chest. His Highness’ body bows forward this time, towards him again, and Dedue steadies him with a firm press of his palm.

Satisfied with the job he’s done, seeing no more rain dripping down His Highness’ body save for the occasional tear that still spills down his cheek, Dedue strokes a palm across His Highness’ head. He leans into it, and Dedue realizes with a pang that he’s going to have to break contact yet again.

“That’s it,” he soothes anyway. “Let’s get you into some dry clothes, okay?” When he receives no answer but the sound of ragged breathing, he tries again, digs down for the name he’s sure will help, albeit make it harder on himself: “Dimitri.” A tremor runs through His Highness’ body; Dedue sees it traveling through his limbs, feels the vibrations under his palm. “I need you to respond to me. You don’t have to speak; just nod or shake your head.” A slow nod. “Stay right here. I’m not leaving you.”

Another nod, so Dedue closes his eyes, take a deep breath, and pulls away once more. Every movement that pulls him further from His Highness is torture. He wastes no time in grabbing a clean shirt and pants from his closet and brings them back to where His Highness is huddled in towels on the chair.

Dedue touches the back of his hand to His Highness’ cheek. “I’m going to help you get dressed, okay?” he asks. When he receives an affirmative nod, he gets to work, carefully training his eyes on His Highness’ belly and no lower when it’s time to help him into his pants, gently guiding arms through sleeves for the shirt. All the while stroking hands and fingers across the back of his neck and shoulders at every chance he can get, giving him as much physical assurance he can muster throughout the task.

Getting His Highness to the bed is next, which means Dedue has to support most, if not all, of the weight himself. Facing him, Dedue extends his arms around His Highness’ waist, below the armpits, embraces him tightly and lifts until they’re both upright. The clothes are evidently too loose, the pants hanging dangerously low on His Highness’ hips, the shirt exposing a bare shoulder. His arms still circling around His Highness’ back, Dedue reaches to adjust the shirt, trying to leave as little skin exposed to the air as possible. Dissatisfied with the coverage, Dedue reaches for his scarf, still hanging off the back of his chair, and drapes it around His Highness’ shoulders.

“There,” Dedue says. “Is that better?”

The next thing he knows, His Highness has thrown his arms over Dedue’s shoulders and has buried his face in Dedue’s chest.

Dedue holds still there for a moment, his heart aching awfully like it’s just been split in two. He holds on as tight and reassuring as he can, cards his fingers through His Highness’ hair, pats the top of his head, runs soothing motions up and down his back. Surrounding him like this, Dedue can feel how chilled he still is at every point where their skin touches, trembles along with him.

He wants to engulf His Highness in warmth, make this room a safe place where he can hide from all his demons even without the added activities. He wants to shield him, more than ever, from the pain and the weight of the world.

And he knows, deeper than his bones, most of all, that this is exactly what His Highness wants – what he needs – right now as well.

“I’ve got you,” Dedue murmurs. “Come; let’s go to bed.”

His Highness does move with him when he steps towards the bed, wobbling off-balance, but Dedue carries most of the weight and gets them there. He extricates himself somewhat from His Highness’ arms, if only for the purpose of helping him into bed, getting him seated and then lifting his legs up onto the mattress. Urges him a little further inwards so that Dedue can climb in after him.

When they are both lying in the bed and Dedue has pulled two layers of blankets up and over them, he reaches for the nightstand and extinguishes his last candle. A thin stream of moonlight shines through the window, illuminating a spot on the floor where the two large towels lie forgotten. It’s just enough light that Dedue can make out the shape of His Highness’ body beside him, and he rolls towards him, meeting His Highness’ back with his chest, and wraps his arms around him once more.

His Highness shivers still, but gradually, with the warmth from the blankets and Dedue’s body, the chill dissipates from his skin. His body still shakes, however, and the occasional soft sob reminds Dedue that he is still crying.

Dedue strokes up and down His Highness’ arm, a gentling motion even as the sniffles continue. “Cry as much as you need,” he says softly. “I’m right here for you.”

The moment the words are out of his mouth, their implications hit him deep. He is transported back nine years, to cuddles together under blankets. He hears Ashe’s words from barely a month ago as if they were yesterday, his talk of friendship, what turned out to be a perfectly accurate analysis of what His Highness might require.

Dedue’s life, for so long now, from the instant he’d resolved to put those childish behaviors and memories behind him, had simply been that of a pawn. A life he’d chosen for himself, knowing its full implications. Certainly, he was of more aid to His Highness alive than dead, but he also knew his place. It’s why sacrificing his life five years ago, allowing himself to be sentenced instead, was never up for debate. That his people repaid their debt to His Highness by saving him in kind was simply a fortunate turn of events.

Much more recently, Dedue has allowed himself moments of introspection, confirmation that his life is his own. From here on out, following His Highness, serving him, protecting him – that is all his choice. He will continue to do so because he wants to. But he will also take the time to fight for other things that are important to him once this war is over, with or without His Highness. That is his decision.

Dedue realizes now, very suddenly, that what he’d believed was efficiency and duty may have caused him to neglect a crucial aspect of his service. He understands what Ashe meant now. For all His Highness needs someone to support him in his goals, he’s been lacking friends.

Felix was that, once. Sylvain and Ingrid as well, though less so. Their bonds had all been frayed in their unfair childhoods. And for all His Highness had gotten along well with his classmates at the Officers’ Academy, the onset of his worsening headaches and the stress of the Flame Emperor had hindered any possible progress.

Now, caught in the turmoil of war, a cycle of vengeance, haunted by the dead, there’s been no reprieve, no chance to start anew or make amends. Everyone else at Garreg Mach had relied on Dedue’s aid, because he was the only person His Highness still trusted. Maybe the only person he considered a friend. And Dedue had been too blind and stubborn and foolish to admit that.

He’s aware he can’t have everything he wants. But maybe, after all these years…

Maybe he can be that person, after all.

There can’t be any shame in opening his heart in this moment, to be a steady shore for the waves of grief to crash against. He will bear that pain and shrug it away so that Dimitri no longer suffers. He will do this by choice as Dimitri’s closest remaining friend.

They lie together under the blankets, silent save for the occasional shuddering exhale; when those happen, Dedue tightens his grip around Dimitri, buries his nose in the crook of his neck, nuzzles gently. Eventually, even those sighs fade away.

When Dedue thinks Dimitri must have fallen asleep, he hears Dimitri whisper: “I’ve missed this.”

And oh, Dedue has been such a fool.

He swallows thickly, but the lump in his throat cannot be contained. A million promises hang in the air around them, promises of the past that Dedue has robbed them of with his folly. “I’m sorry,” is all he can manage in reply.

Dimitri rolls over so that they’re face to face, and snuggles up against Dedue’s chest, arms pressed close between them, elbows bent upwards and fingers curling in the fabric of Dedue’s shirt. Dedue presses one palm between Dimitri’s shoulder blades and is rewarded with relaxing muscles, a soft sigh.

“You smell nice,” Dimitri mumbles.

Dedue blinks, tries to ignore the tiny thrill that goes through his body at those words. This is not the place. He cannot allow himself to be weak in a time like this.

“I had the opportunity to bathe, before you came by,” he explains instead.

“You always think of everything,” Dimitri continues, though his words slur together. “You’re ready for anything. You always know what to do.”

Dedue’s cheeks heat up. “I…try,” he says. Bites back on the words at the tip of his tongue, but shrouded in blankets and warmth and Dimitri in his arms like he belongs there, the impulse to release them is too strong. “You deserve nothing less than the best. I am sorry I have not always been that for you.”

“You are perfect.”

Instinctively his arms tighten around Dimitri, holding him secure and close. His eyes sting like he, too, might start crying, and he furiously blinks the sensation away.

Dedue is not perfect, far from it. But tonight, if he is able to be exactly what Dimitri needs, that is enough to keep his heart intact, for now.

“Dimitri,” he whispers, but this time he receives no answer. So he, too, settles in for the night, closes his eyes and lets the peaceful glow of moonlight and dreams take him away.

He wakes up the next morning feeling much more refreshed than he has in recent memory, albeit a little overheated from the layers of blankets and the extra clothes he does not normally sleep in. One of his arms is asleep, tiny needles pricking into his skin. He opens his eyes, stretches his arms, and finds himself alone in the bed. A chill of foreboding slinks down his spine, and he sits abruptly and scans the rest of the room.

Dimitri is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not be able to update this weekend cause I won't be around, but I will do my best! Sorry for leaving it off this way, but an update is better than nothing, right?


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news: I'm back for now! Bad news: I'm probably rewriting the final chapter, and possibly splitting it in two. So after the next update, it might take some time while I sort this out into something I'm more satisfied with. I hope you continue to enjoy in the meantime!

Dedue manages to distract himself just enough the next day so that his body works; he gardens and cooks automatically, going through the motions as he’s done many times before. His thoughts, however, are muddled with reasons he might have messed up, ruined whatever healing moment he was supposed to be providing for His Highness. He sifts through a hundred different ideas, but he comes up short every time. The only thing that might make an ounce of sense would be if he had done something horribly inappropriate in his sleep. Thing is, he can’t remember any of his dreams from the night before, and he has no recollection of ever waking up in the middle of the night.

That was already an unusual feat. Dedue generally has a decent memory for these things, and he’s trained himself to wake up quickly if something happens. How did His Highness manage to extricate himself from their tangled limbs and leave the room without waking him?

“Are you all right, Dedue?” Annette asks him timidly. He doesn’t even have time to answer her, as the moment the words are out of her mouth she’s letting out a shriek as the knife she’d been holding clatters to the floor.

Dedue is at her side immediately, bending over to pick up the knife. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

Annette shakes her head, cheeks as flaming as her hair. “N-No, I’m fine, I’m sorry!” she gushes.

Dedue is almost thankful for the diversion, especially since there is no harm done, since it means Annette promptly forgets ever having asked over his well-being. He suspects her time around Mercedes has sharpened her perception skills, but he has zero desire to bring up his troubles with her.

He forces himself to remain on task all day and not slip away to look for His Highness. If he left without saying anything, without waking Dedue up, then it must mean he does not want to see him or speak with him. The prospect stings and burns Dedue’s lungs, but he will not disrespect His Highness in his time of mourning.

That doesn’t stop him from eavesdropping on numerous conversations throughout the day, listening intently for talks of where His Highness might be – unknown, but not the cathedral, surprisingly – and what might come next now that Lord Fraldarius is no longer there to guide them. None of it is remotely helpful, and he’s not sure why he bothers.

That night, he hears the same knock on his door.

He lets His Highness in, and without a word, he marches over to Dedue’s bed and curls up underneath the blankets, looking back at him, expectant, questioning, almost hopeful. And Dedue can deny him nothing, not when it’s in line with his own desires, even if the danger of the slippery slope looms over his shadow.

They cuddle in bed together once more, face to face on their sides, arms and legs tangled in a strong embrace. Dedue touches his nose to His Highness’ hair, breathes in the scents of pine, grass, and dirt, tinged with salted sweat. He dimly wonders the odds of him convincing His Highness to take a bath, but quickly rejects that plan.

Instead, he says softly, “What is it you need?”

His Highness shakes his head, eye closed, but his arm around Dedue’s waist tightens its grip, attempts to pull him even closer. Dedue shifts carefully to accommodate the request without suffocating him.

“Just this,” His Highness mumbles against his chest. Dedue can feel his warm breath through the fabric of his shirt.

Dedue’s face is so close to resting atop of His Highness’ head; he can feel the wandering strands of hair already threatening to stick to his lips and worm their way up his nostrils, but he does not care. If he could do so without crushing His Highness, he would press their bodies even closer.

But His Highness said he just wanted this. No matter how powerful the urge to close every tiniest gap between their bodies, Dedue will not budge. Instead, he will treasure what he does have, and cherish the fact that His Highness trusts him like this, even at his most vulnerable.

He sleeps without dreaming, wakes up alone, and the cycle continues.

For several nights in a row, His Highness will knock on Dedue’s door and spend the night with him in bed, only to be gone before Dedue wakes. They barely speak during these times, taking solace only in the comfort of their bodies fitting together. Then, during the day, Dedue catches no sign of him, and resists the temptation to ask around, or search on his own.

At some point, Dedue carries His Highness’ armor to his proper room, and finds it unsurprisingly deserted, though a tiny part of him had hoped otherwise. He spends a small amount of time tidying up (though the most the room needs is a good dusting) and continues his usual daily routines, only to be visited again by His Highness at night.

This cycle must be something akin to torture, Dedue thinks. The more time he spends with his body pressed up against the warmth of His Highness’, the deeper the burn of longing within him. He wants so badly to smother Dimitri against the bed, pin him down beneath his weight, drop kisses over all of his scars and elsewhere besides. He belatedly wonders if maybe prevention of this desire played a subconscious role in his decision to abstain from any lasting physical intimacy all those years ago, if a part of him just knew that it would only lead to an ever-building flame.

On the fifth consecutive night of silent cuddling, Dedue finally breaks the silence.

“What are you thinking?”

His Highness lifts his head from where he’d been burrowing into Dedue’s shirt and looks up at him, his expression questioning at first, then contemplative. There’s a glint to his eye that Dedue hasn’t seen in a while, that confirms that His Highness is wading through the swamps of grief and seeking shallower ground.

“They’re angry with me,” His Highness says slowly, as though measuring his words. “Understandably so.”

Dedue knows exactly what he means, and frowns. “I fail to see it,” he says. “You performed admirably at Gronder. Thanks to your prowess, we delivered a severe blow to the Imperial army, and carved open a path to march unimpeded to Enbarr. What has given them cause for anger?”

His Highness closes his eye, shakes his head, looks back up at Dedue. There’s a slight sheen to the blue, and Dedue is instantly guilty for bringing this up. “Rodrigue died because of me. Everyone who’s ever loved me has been inevitably doomed to die in front of me.”

“I am still alive,” Dedue reasons, the response automatic.

It must not be the appropriate response, because His Highness’ cheeks tinge with pink, and his brow furrows. “You don’t – that’s not true.”

Dedue thinks back to five years ago, when he legitimately should have died in His Highness’ stead. Now, thanks to his people, he’s been graced with a second chance to live, to use that life to fulfill his own dreams. Even so, Dedue would be horribly remiss to presume that his current presence can erase five years of mourning. 

He lifts the arm he has draped around His Highness’ side and back to sift through his hair, a soothing apology for his misstep. His Highness exhales, losing some of the recent tension, and leans into his touch; Dedue inwardly sighs in relief.

“But–” His Highness rolls his shoulders back, then curls back inwards “–I don’t want them to hurt me like this anymore. I– I’m so tired, Dedue.”

Dedue pulls him just a little bit closer, allows himself to brush his lips against his Highness’ forehead, feather-light, before pulling back an inch. “You’ve suffered for a long time. Weaker men than you would have long succumbed to this sort of agony. That you are still standing is a testament to your character.”

“But how do I make it stop?”

His eye is brilliant, pleading, a perfect vision of the boy who’d looked down upon his beaten body nine years ago, surrounded by destruction and flames. The look that made Dedue feel like he could be someone’s salvation, while simultaneously saving him too. He wishes he could snap his fingers and bend reality to his will, meld the world into one that would relieve Dimitri of all his burdens.

“I am not sure,” he answers honestly. “But I think, if you cannot fully silence them, there might still be a way to tone them down. Place more weight on those who are still living, and fight for them first – then atoning to the dead will follow naturally from there.”

Lithe fingers trace circles in the fabric over Dedue’s chest, little tickling motions that make his stomach flip. “A lot of people have said similar things,” His Highness says quietly. “If I’m being honest, I don’t know how to do that. That’s not – they’ve always been in the forefront, for me.”

“It’s because you care so much,” Dedue tells him, trailing his hand down the back of His Highness’ head and coming to rest at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “Those who still surround you are alive, so you’ve not lost them yet. The dead, you cling to, so that they will not be completely gone.”

His Highness shrinks his body into Dedue’s, bowing his head so that Dedue can no longer see his face. The hands at his chest clench and bunch up the fabric into fists. He hears the labored breathing, feels the warm puffs of air against his shirt. Strokes soothing motions down His Highness’ back, palm vibrating along with his shudders.

When His Highness speaks, he’s barely audible; Dedue has to strain to hear him. “They’re already slipping from me,” he confesses. “My stepmother… I can barely remember her face. They’re all fading – only their voices – I don’t know how much longer to hold on. If I even _can_ hold on.”

Dedue sighs and closes his eyes, digs down deep in the darkest recesses of his memories, but all he sees are shadows. He pulls His Highness in more tightly, using the comfort of another warm, solid body to brace for his own admission. One he’d never told a soul, until Mara. One he’d always wished to share with Dimitri, but never knew how.

“I can no longer remember what my parents and sister looked like,” he reveals. “I forgot their faces years ago.”

His Highness looks up at that, meets Dedue’s gaze. “Do you hate yourself for it?” he asks, sounding younger than he has in years.

Dedue shakes his head. “At first, maybe a little. But I recall many other things with vivid clarity: the lessons they taught me, the pastimes we shared together. Those are the memories I carry with me every day, that bleed into my life and influence my actions. Over time, I’ve come to realize those are more important.”

“More important,” His Highness echoes.

Dedue nods. “With every seed from Duscur I nurture in the soil here, with every meal I cook that was taught to me by my parents, I bring with me the reminders of my homeland and my people. Their memory lives on in me, and I wish to strive for my own goals, knowing in doing so I would have made them proud. That’s why I want to fight to liberate my country. I have resolved to do whatever it takes to achieve reconciliation.” He bites his lip, hesitates. “Ashe and I have been discussing the possibilities. I think we would work well together. Preferably under your banner, with your support.”

“Oh,” His Highness says faintly, his expression becoming clouded. His eyelids droop, and Dedue realizes that maybe this isn’t the best time to be engaging in such a conversation.

Dedue brings his hand to rest against His Highness’ cheek. “It’s late,” he says gently. “You don’t have to think of such things right now.”

“But I –”

“Shh,” Dedue hushes him, bringing a finger to his lips, finds them dry and cracked. Longs to moisten them with his own, breathe new life into him, cultivate and grow it like seeds just waiting for the proper environment to bloom into beautiful flowers. Swiftly stamps the urge down, because he will not ruin this relationship with his petty internal struggles, especially when His Highness has already lost so much. “We will have plenty of time to talk more later. For now, let’s go to sleep.”

They settle into each other and sleep takes them both; Dedue dreams of lingering moments like these. He dreams of freely planting chaste kisses across Dimitri’s forehead, down to the tip of his nose. He dreams of Dimitri reaching up, cradling his cheeks in his hands, kissing him back, wanting it for real this time.

It’s warm and sweet and good, and Dedue basks in this dream land for as long as he can.

~o~

It was the pale dawn’s glow peeking through Dedue’s curtains, kept open just a sliver to let the rays shine through, that woke Dimitri the next morning. He laid there a while longer, taking stock of himself, of Dedue’s big strong arms around him, gathering him up, keeping him safe and close. Heat everywhere they’re touching. Soft, even breaths whispering across his forehead; he could almost feel the moisture from Dedue’s lips upon his skin.

He opened his eye and craned his neck to get a look at him. Dedue’s eyes were closed, his body relaxed all around him. A faint breeze traveled in from the window Dedue normally left just slanted open, bringing in fresh air and the smell of pine, mingling with Dedue’s natural earthy scent.

His first thoughts, still hazy from sleep, were that he wanted to taste it on Dedue’s mouth. While he was still in this fog, he reached with trembling fingers, the barest of touches against Dedue’s jaw, leaned his head forward and up, touched his lips to Dedue’s. Head still in the clouds, everything was too blurry for his mind to tell if Dedue was reciprocating. But he pulled away after no more than a moment regardless.

Back then, Dedue had kissed him back. Dimitri repeated this notion, this certainty, to himself like a mantra. There was no way he didn’t want this too.

But Dimitri’s thoughts were too jumbled to make sense of what that could mean for them. Any possible future for himself felt so far away, held out of reach by figures shrouded in darkness, ghosts laughing at his expense.

_You left me to die, and now you’ve done the same to my father,_ Glenn scorned. _Will you kill my little brother next?_

The words, spoken from a faceless remnant of what was once his closest companion, struck him like shards of ice embedded deep into his spine, shoved and twisted and rooting him in place. Dimitri’s good eye burned with the sudden onset of tears yet again; where his gouged eye would have been throbbed with a phantom pain.

Dedue couldn’t remember faces either.

Dimitri lingered on that thought, along with the wisdom he’d shared the night before as they huddled in the bed together. He thought of Felix, the last of the Fraldarius bloodline, just like himself, the last of the Blaiddyds. Almost absurdly, his brain settled on a single word: _legacy_.

Excruciatingly cautious, Dimitri slowly extricated himself from Dedue’s limbs. As he swung his leg over Dedue’s large body, struggling with the narrowness of the mattress, Dedue stirred. Panic rose in Dimitri’s chest, and he unthinkingly bent over to kiss Dedue’s temple. Dedue let out a sigh, something light and soft and sweet that shouldn’t be capable of belonging to a man of his strength and stature, and remained in the throes of his slumber.

Dimitri hovered over the edge of the bed, and for a moment, it was as though time stood still, frozen everywhere outside of this little bubble they were in, undisturbed by the rises and falls of Dedue’s chest. It was magnetic, almost hypnotic; Dimitri wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed with him, let the current wash him into shores of powerful arms, protective and safe.

He shook himself of his fantasies and tiptoed his way to the door, gradually opening and closing it in the way he knew would minimize any creaking, and emerged into the bright outdoors.

He found Felix in the training ring, hacking away at a wooden dummy with a practice sword. Felix showed no signs of noticing Dimitri’s entrance; even from a distance, it was evident how his eyes tracked his goal without fail, glinting with determined focus, teeth gritted together. The sweat that beaded at his brow made Dimitri wonder just how early he’d awoken to train like this.

Dimitri spectated for a while, not wanting to interrupt. For the first time in five years, he admired Felix’s swordplay. The man was an incredibly skilled warrior now – probably surpassing even Glenn. That prospect made Dimitri smile to himself. For all Glenn’s biting words penetrating his brain, he thought with startling certainty that if Glenn were alive right now, he’d have been proud.

At some point, Felix took a break to reach for his waterskin, and he unfortunately took notice of his observer. His expression instantly turned to a glower.

“Come to finish what you started, you rabid boar?” he sneered. “Gonna try and kill me, too?”

Dimitri winced. “I’ll take responsibility for Rodrigue’s death one hundred times over,” he said. “He died by my foolishness. But Glenn – no one could have controlled what happened back then.”

“No,” Felix agreed, “but you’re still tainting his memory.”

Dimitri inhaled sharply, then forced himself to hold it in before exhaling. All of the emotions he’d turned into words in his head tied up his tongue, and suddenly he found himself speechless.

Felix stared at him long and hard as though calculating something. Dimitri could only return his gaze, made eye contact as best he could, baring himself open for judgement, whatever that may be. Punishment by his sword, perhaps. Dimitri came here unarmed; that was what he deserved.

Felix looked away with a derisive snort, seemingly coming to some sort of conclusion that Dimitri didn’t dare ask about. He wasn’t worthy of that much grace.

“Pathetic.” Felix practically spat out the word. “You’re nothing but a sick, miserable dog that needs to be put down. Unless,” and here, he met Dimitri’s eye once more, dark depths blazing with an unmistakable challenge, “you find some way to atone.”

Dimitri swallowed hard, the weight of Felix’s words a daunting, heavy task. Redemption was something he’d long discarded the possibility for. The concept felt alien to him now, underserved after all the crimes and atrocities he’d committed. But Rodrigue had wished it of him. Dedue said that his next actions could make amends to the dead. Dimitri dreadfully wished he could make that true, if he could figure out how.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by Felix’s condescending tone. “If all you’re going to do is dawdle, get out of my sight,” he seethed. “I have more important things to do than babysit a wild animal.”

And, well. Dimitri supposed that was fair.

It was while he was walking away from the training grounds, feet moving with a mind of their own, crossing the monastery’s beautiful bridge, that the idea began to form in his head.

It was fully formed by the time he took his first step into the cathedral. Despite having sustained heavy damages during the onset of the war five years ago, some of the stained glass windows had miraculously remained intact. Bright colored light trickled down into the spaces between the pews, highlighting the tiny dust particles that floated through the air. A small chorus of people stood together, singing their prayers for guidance and strength.

Dimitri lifted his foot, but it was suddenly glued to the ground, burdened by weight even his crest could not overpower, his mind and his body at war for dominance. Images of what could be flashed before his eyes, vanishing into the dust the moment he blinked.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deep, just like Dedue would tell him to do. This unlikely plan of his wasn’t atonement – far from it – but it was something. In one way, expressing it would relinquish what little control he had left. But in another, perhaps this would be his way of taking back some control, as well.

His heel dug into the stone, twisted. He listened to the vague echoes of hymns, breathed them in as if to absorb their meaning, their power, for himself, to grant him the courage he needed to move forward.

And he spun around and marched himself towards the war room.


	15. Chapter 15

Dimitri hung back once the meeting was adjourned. The professor’s encouraging hand on his shoulder, though it only rested there for a moment, felt like a searing brand, and guilt washed over him instantly following the relief at seeing her go. Looking into Gilbert’s eyes brought out much of the same, so Dimitri had avoided as much eye contact with him as possible.

He’d stood behind a chair for most of the meeting, too restless to sit, and had grasped the back so hard that when he finally pulled away, the seat had unfortunately sustained enough damage from his iron grip that the wooden columns had bent out of shape. So, Dimitri closed his fists around the dented mahogany and fervently hoped that no one had noticed.

Speaking to everyone, apologizing to them, baring his heart and his shame and his measly chance for redemption, was agonizing. His voice trembled uncontrollably, and he was pretty sure the chair was the only crutch that could have kept him on his feet throughout the ordeal.

To find he would be supported was the greatest shock. To find that everyone – even Felix, who’d arrived shortly after him; had that been his plan all along? To get some early training in before this meeting that must have been scheduled, otherwise why would so many people have been there when he’d entered? – was willing, even eager, to go along with him in this new direction was so far removed from Dimitri’s wildest dreams as even a remote possibility. 

And yet, he’d been accepted. Plans were made.

They were going to take back Fhirdiad. Dimitri was going to finally become a king.

He was utterly terrified.

Once he was the last person left, and all the footsteps had faded from the hall, he collapsed onto his hands and knees and allowed himself to hyperventilate.

It was just – the magnitude of his words, the impact he was about to place on this war – it was all too much. Tidal waves of doubt flooded his mind, crashing into him with so much force he could barely hold himself steady. He thought he might succumb to it, fall to the ground and roll back and forth until darkness took him. But instead he furiously blinked the tears from his eye, used a shaky hand to wipe whatever spilled down his cheek.

He wasn’t ready to be king. Five years ago, it was all he could do to keep himself in check, to refrain from barging into his uncle’s office and demand that they change the law, to crown him a year early so that Faerghus could finally begin its proper reconstruction, that which Dimitri dreamed of building together with his friends, with Dedue, with Rodrigue.

Now, though, he very clearly understood that he was unfit to lead, that kings should not be monsters. But his people – his, he somehow thought of them as _his_, after going so long without – needed a ruler, needed a figurehead to rally behind and pull them from the clutches of war. They needed someone who would care for them, and not uselessly wage war like Edelgard did now.

If he was ever truly to successfully make amends, Dimitri needed to become that leader.

There was not enough time. Oh, Goddess, how there was so little time.

Dimitri was weak. He was a shell of what he once was: confident, capable, good-hearted. He wasn’t sure he was any of those anymore. And yet they were willing to follow him anyway.

He could not dictate their thoughts, their actions. He could not force them to do anything. They gathered around him of their own volition, and Dimitri was surely set to crack under the weight of the trust they’d just placed in him, unless he could ensure their upcoming victory.

Could he command this army? Take control of its purpose, wield it for a good cause?

Or was his resolve too brittle, too close to breaking to ever hope to make a difference in this war-torn hellscape?

His stomach swooped and he choked, coughing and trying to swallow down the bile that had suddenly gushed up his throat like a geyser. He hacked and wheezed, sending spurts of phlegm onto the floor. Dimitri had practically bathed in pools of blood, and yet this sight sickened him. He groaned through dizzying waves of nausea, closed his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.

Eventually, Dimitri managed to regain his wits and sit up on his knees without extra support. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, brushed his hair out of his face at the same time and realized how grimy it felt, how pungent the stench wafting off his body was. For all he might deserve to be a dirty, grease-stained beast, that wasn’t what the Faerghans needed. Even if it was forced…if he could fool himself long enough, maybe he could convince himself that he could be good, too.

How long had it been since he last bathed?

It had been with Dedue, Dimitri recalled. Dedue had bathed him, massaged deep into his scalp with soapy fingers, sent him into a place where he could float and forget for a while.

Oh, how he longed to forget, to stop thinking, to flee the anxieties that plagued them. He couldn’t outrun them forever, he knew that, but now, when they threatened to swallow him whole, he needed –

He’d spent the past five nights sharing Dedue’s bed, smelling this foul. Dedue hadn’t said a word, hadn’t shown any disinclination to hold Dimitri close and bathe him in the warmth of limbs and blankets. There’d been no hint of disgust, only a genuine willingness to provide comfort and care.

The unfairness of it all burned beneath his chest. Dedue was a gift; someone to be cherished. Dimitri had spent so long doing the exact opposite of that. Anything he wanted from Dedue, anything that Dedue might do for him – none of that was deserved. It wouldn’t be, not until Dimitri stitched the pieces back together.

He chuckled bitterly to himself. He’d always been terrible at sewing.

But, it was something that had to be done. Starting with a bath.

~o~

Dimitri avoided Dedue. He wasn’t rude about it – at least he tried not to be – but he’d taken advantage of him quite enough in the past month; and if he knew anything about the kind of man Dedue was, he knew he was the kind of vassal who would do anything to serve, without first thinking of himself. Dimitri vaguely remembered Dedue mentioning his own goals, briefly, their last night sleeping together, but he would not be able to accomplish such things following after a wounded animal. And if that last night was the end, if he didn’t want to serve Dimitri anymore – well, that wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe they could finally speak to each other as equals.

So Dimitri gave Dedue his well-warranted space, and spent his days focusing on himself as best as he could.

It was much more difficult than he expected. One of the tasks Dimitri had established for himself was to converse with as many people as possible. If he was to even fit himself into the shadow of a king, he would need such a skill. The issue, however, was that after going for nearly five years without speaking to anyone, he found his social abilities to be sorely lacking. Of course, it had been easy with Dedue; everything was easy with him. With anyone else, though, Dimitri had no clue where to begin.

His first attempt at small talk was with Sylvain, who looked at Dimitri like he’d been possessed. They both stumbled their way through a conversation about the weather and walked away from each other after what couldn’t have been more than a minute. It left Dimitri feeling unhinged.

He cycled through short and stilted conversations with Ashe, followed by Ingrid, and Goddess, Dimitri was the most awkward man in the world. Blessedly, when he came across Annette, her face brightened at the sight of him and she regaled him with a riveting tale of the ghost she and Ashe suspected was lurking in the library’s attic. He found himself smiling, and it was disarmingly easy. Which made sense, since Annette did all the work. Which…was the opposite of what he was after.

He sighed after they parted ways. Another failed attempt.

He persisted, asking after some of the guards’ health, their families. Some looked at him as though he were mad; some shrank back as if frightened he would attack them, stammered out responses; some glared and walked right away. Fewer were merciful and engaged with him sympathetically. Disheartening as it was, Dimitri couldn’t blame them. The only way to normalize this would be to continue making advances.

Blessedly, Mercedes earnestly made herself available for him every day, taking time out of her busy schedule aiding Professor Manuela’s infirmary to check in and ask how he was doing. For all her encouragement struck him as absolutely genuine, as was the norm with Mercedes, he couldn’t help but feel unworthy of her kindness. Yet another hurdle he’d have to surpass.

Learning to socialize again did not bring him joy, but the more he did it, the less alien it became. He began picking up on certain visual cues, body language to gauge whether or not his target was engaged. A skill he’d learned well, back in the day, but had rusted in its years gone unused.

A more enjoyable endeavor was returning to activity in the training grounds. Felix still harbored no desire to train with him, but Ingrid, Ashe, and occasionally Sylvain were willing to partner with him. Dimitri hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this until he had reestablished a routine, a proper training regimen. Sure, constant skirmishes with bandits, and now Imperial soldiers, were proper battlefield tests of ability – but there was something refreshing to fighting with low stakes. It wasn’t carefree, per se, but there was an easy companionship in it, matched with a hard drive to be stronger.

By the end of the first week of his new path, he’d already made great strides in improving his communication skills. Even the professor was impressed with him. Well. She wasn’t their teacher anymore, really, but he rather appreciated the callbacks to their time at the Officers’ Academy five years ago.

“You always could do anything you put your mind to,” she commended, and Dimitri blushed. Nonsensically, he imagined Dedue saying the same, telling him, _Very good_, and his body flushed warm all over.

Dimitri wanted to hear Dedue’s praises. Engaging in those nightly activities before – before Gronder – had been filled with them, showered Dimitri under the mirage that he could actually be good. Now more than ever, he wished for Dedue to acknowledge him, to laud him, to dote on him.

To relax.

The first few days, it crept up slowly. A tingling on the backs of his hands, hairs prickling at the nape of his neck. So mild, nothing compared to his migraines, that he figured it was nothing, and continued to function as normal.

“I still cannot score a point against you,” Ingrid panted, lowering her training sword in defeat after a long and arduous sparring match in the training grounds, “even when you’re injured.”

Dimitri frowned at her. “I am not sure what you refer to,” he replied slowly. “I haven’t sustained any injuries.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure?” she asked. “There’s nothing wrong with your shoulders or back?”

He blinked. “My shoulders?”

“Yes,” Ingrid nodded. “They’re so tense. Are you sure you’re not overcompensating for an aggravated muscle or something of the like?”

Dimitri exhaled, and his shoulders sagged by what must have been several inches. Oh.

“Please do not worry on my behalf,” he told her. “I assure you I am not injured. I must be dealing with some soreness, is all.”

That seemed to satisfy her. “All right, well, make sure you take some time to stretch properly,” she advised.

“Of course,” Dimitri said hurriedly. “I will do that without delay. Thank you, Ingrid.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” she responded. As he turned to leave, she called after him, “Shall we do this again tomorrow?”

He craned his neck over his shoulder to glance at her and waved his acknowledgement, his heart a little lighter knowing that certain friendships were not irreparable.

Except for Felix. Felix was a closed door now, tightly sealed. But he had issued a challenge, something he had no motive for, unless. If Dimitri could rise to his expectations, maybe he would be granted the molding for the key. But that, he supposed, was a very, very distant future.

In the meantime, there were more pressing matters to attend to, such as Dimitri’s tight muscles. He opted to stretch in his room, where there was no chance of being disturbed. It definitely helped, but there was something deeper ailing him, something jittering down to his bones. A weird nervous energy had filled him, making him feel like he was ready to fly out of his skin.

Dimitri breathed in and out very carefully, keeping a mental count of the seconds. Taking internal stock of himself, he noted that his heart rate was mild, back to normal after cooling down from his bout with Ingrid. Apart from a very mild soreness, he wasn’t hurt anywhere. So why was his body trembling so?

He stood up and shook out his limbs, trying to expel the strange tension from his body but to no avail. Nothing about this made sense. Sure, he was stepping out of his comfort zone, at the beginnings of a long and arduous process to earn back respect and become a king, if all went according to plan. To become a good person. And while that was certainly a most stressful undertaking, he’d thought he was handling this past week rather well without Dedue to –

“Dedue,” he whispered to himself.

Of course Dedue would know what to do. The man was brilliant; each time he’d taken Dimitri to that floating place, where he could leave his body and mind behind and shed his burdens, he’d found a new and exhilarating way to do it. At this point, even the simplest of methods would suffice to quell his craving. He would throw himself on his knees before Dedue, close his eyes and absorb gentle hands in his hair, soft words along the breeze, and that would be enough.

But he did not deserve that kind of relief just yet. Until he could be justified in taking comfort from Dedue, until it no longer felt like he was talking advantage of the last living person he would break the world for, he could not allow himself to broach the subject again.

Dimitri exhaled, a shaky sigh of bitter resignation. This discomfort would only get worse as time went on, he knew. But like all the other burdens he’d learned to bear over the years – this, too, he would have to endure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm reworking the entire final chapter. That might cause it to be split in two, or not. I don't know yet but I'm not satisfied with it at all. So I don't know how long it'll be before I post the ending. But thank you for sticking with me for this long, and for your patience.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh we're finally here! Thank you for your patience; I am BEYOND happy that I made the decision to completely rework this chapter, because I would've felt so cheated by the way I initially had things play out. Without knowing anything about the original version yourselves, I still hope you enjoy this one!

A few days is one thing, but after nearly two weeks, Dedue has no doubt he is being ignored.

It’s not subtle, either, but at least it’s not drawing unwanted attention from the others. In fact, most find decent reasoning so that Dedue doesn’t have to come up with anything on his own. They assume that now that His Highness is returning to normal, he doesn’t need someone constantly looking after him. It makes Dedue wonder if he’d been too obvious before, for them to think Dedue had been regularly following His Highness around.

Admittedly, he did do just that five years ago at the Officers’ Academy. As His Highness’ vassal, it had been his duty. Now, Dedue isn’t sure if he’s still that, isn’t sure what Dimitri wants from him. For now, it seems he wants nothing. He can’t help but suspect His Highness was more coherent their last night sharing his bed than he’d assumed, and that he’d decided Dedue was no longer fit to serve him if he wanted to pursue other goals.

Now that this moment’s come, he doesn’t know how he should feel about it. He’s torn, a maelstrom of thoughts pulling him in opposite directions. But he recognizes that his attention is best placed in matters he can feasibly control for the time being.

He goes about his days, making himself as useful as possible with the new plans to march into Faerghus and retake Fhirdiad. There are weapon and armor commissions to organize and pick up, supply runs to make, bandits to dispatch of, gardens to grow and food to be cooked.

Dedue crosses paths with His Highness, but always from a distance. Oftentimes, he is accompanied by someone, engaged in conversation with them. Sometimes he looks serious, other times he’s actually smiling.

His Highness hasn’t smiled genuinely in many years now. The sight of that dazzling upwards curve of his lips makes Dedue’s heart catch in his throat.

After twelve days of avoidance, Dedue takes tea with Mercedes.

He’d waffled for hours on whether or not to approach her, but ultimately decided to take her up on her offer. In thanks for her time and consideration, he brings along with him the southern fruit blend he knows she likes. But then – and he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, given that this is Mercedes – she shows up to the tea garden with a four-spice blend that Dedue is particularly fond of. She laughs as they trade blends, and then they settle in for their tea.

Mercedes blows lightly across the surface of her tea, sending ripples across the surface, before gingerly raising her cup to her mouth to take a sip. “This is delightful,” she gushes, beaming at him. “Thank you so much for inviting me today.”

“No, thank you for indulging me,” Dedue answers. He takes a drink from his cup, the warm spice filling him.

He relishes in the earthy smell and the heat spreading to the tips of his toes. He opts not to disturb the comfortable, casual silence they share while they partake of their tea, and just breathes in the moment. Birds dance in the air above them, singing their cheer as they float from one tree branch to the next. 

Eventually, Mercedes’ voice cuts through the calming atmosphere, though somehow not disturbing it. “So,” she says, “was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

With the permission he’s just been granted, Dedue nods. “I have some reason to believe His Highness is avoiding me,” he explains, choosing his words carefully.

“Oh,” Mercedes says, her face falling. “What makes you think that?”

Dedue shifts uncomfortably in his seat, takes another sip of his tea to buy himself more time. Part of him doesn’t want to expose a single personal detail; another voice inside of him insists that Mercedes is safe, that this conversation is useless if he divulges nothing.

He settles for partial disclosure. “His Highness would make a point of coming to see me for several days in a row, and now it has been twelve days since he has made any contact with me.” He takes a breath. “I am not sure what has happened to cause this aversion to my company.”

“Hmm.” Mercedes purses her lips together as she thinks. “I’ve spoken with him on several occasions during this time, and he honestly seems rather well,” she says finally. “I think he’s been making great strides in recovering from his ordeal.”

A heavy stone sinks to the pit of Dedue’s stomach, and even another mouthful of tea cannot mitigate the chill that descends his spine. “So you mean to imply he has no further use for me.”

Mercedes’ eyebrows arch into concern. “I would never mean it like that,” she insists, and Dedue believes in her sincerity, but wonders if maybe this is something she’s read wrong. “I think he will always enjoy having you as a friend.”

Dedue frowns. Hadn’t that been what Dedue was providing for Dimitri, those nights in his bedroom following Lord Fraldarius’ death? Hadn’t that been a show of friendship? And yet, he showed no further inclination to partake.

“Perhaps you should consider this question about what you, Dedue, want for yourself,” Mercedes continues softly, kindly. “Would you rather serve Dimitri, or would you rather stand on equal footing as his friend?”

It’s a question that has already been plaguing him for a long, long time, and only recently had he begun to second-guess his decision, to unlock the box of snuffed out dreams. Dedue wants too many things, things that he’s not sure he can reconcile with Dimitri. He’s not sure what that would mean for them, either.

“I…”

“You don’t have to answer me,” Mercedes says with a gentle smile. “That’s something for you to decide on your own terms, for your personal satisfaction and no one else’s.”

Dedue exhales, expelling the tension from his body. “I am grateful,” he manages.

“In all seriousness,” Mercedes adds, “I really don’t think Dimitri has taken any issue with you. Any perceived problems are just stemming from both of your imaginings. I honestly believe if you just talked to each other, everything will be fine.”

Hmm. Dedue liked it better when he didn’t need to speak for His Highness to understand him. Then again, if Mercedes is right, maybe the moment they spend time together again will cause everything to revert to how it was.

Her words aren’t exactly the reassurance he was hoping for, but he also realizes that there might be a disconnect between what he wants and what is best. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Still, he’s guilty at the twinge of disappointment beneath his ribs, because Mercedes deserves so much better than that.

So he tells her, “Thank you for the advice. I will take it to heart,” and tries not to stare too hard at the way Mercedes positively beams at him in response.

~o~

Dedue waits until the next day before he makes a move. Mostly, he needs the extra time to gather his courage and sufficiently remind himself that Mercedes would be so disappointed that he didn’t take her advice. By the time he spots His Highness from a distance as he walks down the pathway to their old classrooms, heading towards him, the decision is made for him; if Dedue were to walk away now, he would make himself embarrassingly obvious.

He slows his footsteps and takes a brief moment to observe His Highness’ gait. It’s more powerful than it was – confident, too. He carries himself well, his shoulders only the slightest bit hunched, but much improved. (Dedue decidedly does not linger on the thought that he could help with that.) His chin is tilted slightly, head held high, as his cape billows in the breeze behind him. It’s a regal, almost poetic image. Almost kingly.

As His Highness approaches, they make eye contact, and Dedue notes the sudden rosy tinge to his cheeks, the way His Highness’ eye darts left and right before settling on Dedue’s chest.

They stop in front of each other.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Dedue says, holding himself at attention and hating it, hating how formal he sounds.

“Good morning to you too, Dedue,” His Highness replies evenly, with a thin smile that quickly morphs into a look of unease. “Is something the matter?”

“Not at all,” Dedue says hurriedly, shaking his head. “I simply wanted to inquire on how you were faring.”

“Oh.” Relief colors His Highness’ expression. “I’m doing much better. I’m terribly sorry for worrying you, and for inconveniencing you.”

Dedue is going about this all wrong. Mercedes’ words ring in his ears; the only way to know if he has truly been imagining things is to talk. “It was no inconvenience,” he assures. “Truth be told, I grew more apprehensive when I no longer saw you. But I see I had nothing to fear.”

The corners of His Highness’ mouth quirk upwards. “I appreciate the concern,” he says. “Again, it was never my intention to cause you trouble, and I am sorry for it.”

It’s all too formal, too stiff. Even though Dedue had always been this way since he sealed that box years ago, His Highness had remained candid with him. If Dedue were to lose what little familiarity they had left, he would – he couldn’t –

“I miss it,” His Highness blurts suddenly, his face flushing instantly and his shoulders curling in. He crosses his arms over his chest and clutches at his elbows, looks down at his feet so that Dedue can’t see his face. “I’m sorry – I didn’t mean for it to end up like that, I –”

“Shh,” Dedue hushes softly. He glances around quickly, confirms that no one else is around, and clasps a hand on His Highness’ shoulder. His Highness shudders once under his touch. It’s so familiar, so easy to trigger these responses; Dedue wants to do it again and again, draw out every tremble and sigh that he can.

But this is not the time nor place for such dreams. Instead, he simply says, “I’ve missed it too.”

“I’m sorry for making it weird,” His Highness mumbles. “I shouldn’t have gone off without saying anything.”

Dedue shrugs. In the end, he’s not upset with Dimitri. He can’t be. The man was in mourning, and grief manifests itself in so many different ways. Any bitterness he still harbors is his own, and no fault of His Highness’. If he wants things to change, he must cast that aside.

“You did what you felt you needed to do,” Dedue says finally. “I can hardly blame you for that, given all that has happened.”

Dimitri huffs out a disbelieving sound. “You are too soft.”

“As are you.”

A snort. “Two peas in a pod, aren’t we.”

“Perhaps.”

For once, Dedue is unsure how to proceed, how to wade out of the mud they’ve found themselves in, how to clean up and walk freely, together. His mind is rattled with possibilities, so many steps they can take, no way to gauge which ones will be met with the most resistance.

His Highness says, “Can we go back?” and Dedue’s hand on his shoulder quivers.

“Yes,” he breathes, unable to stem the flow of relief. “You are welcome to come by anytime.”

“Tonight?”

“Of course.”

They stay there for a moment, unmoving. Dedue resists the urge to gather Dimitri in his arms and kiss his forehead.

The silence stretches uncomfortably. Dimitri’s cheeks blossom with pink and he looks down, sheepish. “Well, then. I’ll, ah, I have other matters I should attend to.”

Dedue exhales through his teeth. “Of course.”

“I’ll see you tonight, then.”

“I look forward to it.”

And then he’s watching His Highness’ cloak billow off into the distance.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur. Dedue desperately busies himself with even the most trivial tasks, anything to keep his hands occupied, to maintain focus so that he doesn’t waste even a minute thinking too hard. But the anticipation rises in him, an irresistible force overcoming a once immovable object. There was something strange charged in the air around them, sending them hurtling towards something unknown now, and Dedue has no way to discern if it will help or hurt them.

The only way to find out is to greet His Highness at his door that evening, to let him in, to stand facing each other in the middle of the room, and breathe, and ask.

“Your Highness,” he begins, and it tastes rotten on his tongue.

His Highness looks down at that, dressed only in plainclothes, but not before Dedue can see the blatant disappointment on his face.

Dedue winces. He’s already going about this all wrong, has allowed himself to be blind for far too long. It’s clear what he should do now, what is desired of him.

He tries again. “Dimitri.”

Dimitri looks up at that, and the way his eye glimmers with hope shakes Dedue’s core. “Dedue,” he says back. It sighs out of him. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and back again, and the familiar tension returns. “I’m sorry.”

He feels helpless, seeing Dimitri like this. “For what?” he asks. When he receives no immediate response, he adds, “Dimitri, you’ve done nothing wrong here.” He’s not trying to erase everything from the past. But he means it: here, in this room, Dimitri has been incredible. Perfect. Everything Dedue wants.

Gods, does he want him.

Mercifully, he’s spared the onslaught of such dreams by Dimitri’s bitter chuckle. “I’m such an idiot,” Dimitri mutters. “You asked me what I wanted, but the truth is I want too many things.”

“Tell me what you want,” Dedue says, “and allow me to be the judge of that.”

Dimitri fidgets; he worries at his lower lip with his teeth, crosses an arm over his chest to scratch at the opposite elbow, gaze flitting between the four corners of the room. Dedue waits, tries to keep his expression as open and inviting as possible, tries to allow his emotions free passage across his face.

He must be doing something right, because Dimitri’s shoulders sag and his arms fall to his sides. Then, head bowed, he sinks to his knees.

Dedue breathes out through his teeth, then crouches down to eye level with him. Up close, he can spot the slight tremble in Dimitri’s fingers, the pink tinge to his cheeks. He wars with the urge to caress them under his palms. Surrenders halfway, reaches up with one hand, brushes his thumb across Dimitri’s cheek from the corner of his mouth to the sharp line of his jaw. Dimitri shudders under his touch, and rich satisfaction coils beneath Dedue’s ribs.

“You want to kneel for me?” Dedue asks softly.

Dimitri nods. Opens his mouth and closes it again. Dedue watches his throat work as he swallows. His eye opens, gazing at Dedue with something akin to wonder.

“Your hand,” Dimitri says. “Just this, but already, I feel so…”

He trails off, and Dedue’s pulse quickens. Does he truly have such a strong effect on Dimitri? Or is this simply the product of him having gone so long without their sessions, after developing a bit of a routine? If Dedue has inadvertently conditioned him to be this way – that cold reality would be more than he could bear.

It is not a possibility he has any inclination to entertain right now; Dedue will grant himself this one selfishness.

He lets his hand stray upwards, cards his fingers through Dimitri’s hair, sweeping it out of his face. The tiniest of thrills spike through his heart as Dimitri leans deeper into his touch. “I’m glad this is already helping,” he says. “Would you like me to fetch a pillow for your knees?”

“Don’t.” Dedue meets his gaze inquisitively, trying to probe his reasoning, but Dimitri shakes his head and his shoulders hunch as he shrinks into himself. “I mean. Please just stay here. If that’s not too much.”

“Of course it’s not.” Dedue brings his other arm up now, rests it firmly on Dimitri’s shoulder, watching for all the visible tells of it grounding him. Rewarded for his knowledge and understanding of what Dimitri needs in these times from him with softening features, beautiful sighs. “Whatever you ask of me, I will give it to you.” He means it with every fiber of his being, knows down to his very core that in this room, he would do anything. He wants everything.

Dimitri closes his eye; his lower lip trembles. “Promise?” he asks, and Dedue is assaulted by visions of them as children, wide-eyed and pledging to each other that they will always remain side by side.

Dedue says, “I promise,” and it feels like he’s pouring his soul into his answer.

“Then kiss me.”

Dedue freezes.

It’s as if his heart stops in his chest for but a moment before suddenly pounding relentlessly, furiously against his ribcage, his pulse roaring to life in his ears, every nerve ablaze in his body, tingling, screaming, _yes, please_ –

He pulls his hands back before they can dig into Dimitri’s skin. It’s everything he wants, but it can’t possibly be true. Not when Dimitri is already like this.

Dedue squeezes his eyes shut and braces himself for the words he must say, for the stone sinking down the pit of his stomach. “Your Highness, are you sure you’re thinking str–”

“Stop calling me that!” Dimitri cries, and Dedue’s eyes prickle and sting. He forces himself to meet Dimitri’s gaze, and finds so much desperation and fear, so much of the things he should never have in this room. “I know you kissed me back that time.”

Hot shame flares across every inch of Dedue’s skin, and he looks away. “I shouldn’t have,” he grits out. “It was unfair to you.”

“The only thing unfair about it was that you stopped,” Dimitri retorts.

It’s the conviction in that sharp tone that gives Dedue pause, that startles his jumbled thoughts for just long enough to recognize the clarity with which he is speaking. That he is perfectly lucid, and he _means_ it, that now he is currently balking at his own brazen admission.

His head spins, and Dedue cannot remember ever being this terrified. Even during the massacre, fear had been overtaken by despair and defeat. As a warrior, the prospect of looming death did not shake him. But to have this – to have Dimitri – it’s too vast, too overwhelming.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t break your promise,” pleads Dimitri.

The air is so thick, so charged, and Dedue is about to crawl out of his skin. But Dimitri is draining all the instinct to struggle, to resist out of him, tethering him to a lure and reeling him in. He wants so much. He doesn’t want to fight anymore. He can’t fight anymore.

He brings his hands up once more, this time cradling Dimitri’s face, wide eyes meeting each other. Then Dimitri’s eye flutters shut; his lips part just a fraction. Waiting. And incredibly enough, wanting as well.

Dedue can’t make either of them wait any longer. He leans in and kisses him.

Dimitri’s lips are chapped like last time, but it’s Dimitri, and every taste of him is water turned to wine. Dimitri melts into him, and Dedue’s heart sings with it, his skin buzzes and alights. It’s the sweetest validation he’s ever received. How could he have ever lived with just that one previous kiss? How did he ever imagine that he could manage without?

This time, Dedue does not pull away. He doesn’t pull away, and he shifts his hands to circle to the warm, soft hair at the back of Dimitri’s nape. Exudes the slightest of pressures, and is rewarded with a wet gasp against his lips, hot breath across his face. Amidst a ravenous instinct to press harder, his mind screams, _gentle_.

Dimitri makes a sound against him, a tiny whimper and it’s the most beautiful music Dedue’s ever heard. He kisses him deeper, chasing that high of drawing out a delicious melody, already so addicted that stopping now would be torturous agony. Moves against Dimitri’s willing body, pulls their chests flush together, hands sweeping through hair, up and down Dimitri’s back.

Trembling fingers settle over Dedue’s cheeks, and his breath stutters out of him in a long rush. He could build a mountain with his desires, but everything converges onto this one moment, this one piece of ecstasy so powerful his heart is fit to burst.

He breaks off to suck a deep breath, buries his face in the juncture of Dimitri’s neck and shoulder. He kisses open-mouthed at the tender skin there and relishes in the exquisite noise the action elicits.

Words bubble within him and spill without his volition. “Gods, how I’ve wanted to do this for ages,” he babbles. “So badly, you have no idea.”

“Oh, thank the Goddess,” Dimitri gasps, clutching at Dedue’s shoulders, each grip like a searing brand, like the most welcome bonds. “Dedue, please –”

“Anything,” Dedue gushes, “I’ll give you anything –”

The desperate moan Dimitri lets out at that is almost too much to bear, and Dedue’s knees buckle and wobble beneath him as Dimitri clutches tighter.

“Dimitri,” Dedue begs, and he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for but he burns with the need to surround and envelop him, to take Dimitri’s body with his own, capture it, use it, protect it from the rest of the world, in a space where nothing exists but the two of them, chasing and fulfilling their desires –

“Don’t go,” sobs Dimitri, and the moment shifts, the dam breaks and tears are spilling from Dedue’s cheeks as well. He immediately wraps his arms comfortingly around Dimitri as they sink further to the floor, his heartbeat hammering against his chest and roaring in his ears.

“I won’t,” Dedue whispers, kissing the crown of Dimitri’s head. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Dimitri looks up at him, his lower lip trembling and his eye shimmering. “This is real?” he asks in awe. “You truly…”

Dedue wipes away a fresh tear track with his thumb, kisses right beneath Dimitri’s lashes. “I have grown quite practiced at denying myself,” he says, still unsteady from his own tears. “I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to live for myself.” He draws an uneven breath. “But I want loving you to be a part of that. If you will allow it.”

Dimitri breaks into a blinding smile as fresh tears fall upon Dedue’s hand. It reminds him of home, of fields of flowers, of places he belongs.

“So much has happened,” Dimitri says with a sniffle. “I…I don’t have a handle on the things I want with my life, not like you do. My path is so daunting and uncertain, and will no doubt bring even more pain and suffering upon myself and others.” His eye glistens with something hopeful. “But the one thing I am sure of is you.”

And oh, Dedue’s heart has never been fuller, as expansive as the universe itself. He doesn’t think anything can possibly compare to this.

“I want to experience so much with you,” Dimitri continues as a blush creeps up his cheeks, so endearingly shy. “On top of continuing our – what we’ve already done.”

“We will. We have time,” Dedue assures him. “I swear I will learn you right.”

He kisses Dimitri full on the lips again, and Dimitri melts into it. The future may be clouded with uncertainty, but Dedue knows, unequivocally, that no matter what path unravels before them, they will meet it head on, full of newfound reasons and life.

Full of love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this fic came from the song Tragedy + Time by Rise Against: "When faced with tragedy, we come alive or come undone." Dimitri and Dedue's lives are filled with tragedy that threatens to break them, but if they can learn to survive, learn to cope, then they can also learn to live again, for the right reasons. Exploring that has been interesting and complex, but also quite cathartic.
> 
> I suffered from major creative burnout for the better part of three years. Every time I thought I could get back into writing, I'd stumble. This game gave me my inspiration back, and this fic was what cemented it. To have been validated by your support has been so overwhelming, and I can't put into words how much it means to me. So thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> I'm focusing on other writing projects now, but I have a plan in place for a neat little (sexy) coda to this story that I hope to put together sometime. In the meantime, I'm on twitter as [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic) if you want to take joy in this fandom with me!


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